Witness
by AlltheAces
Summary: Fear is often temporary but grief has a nasty tendency to linger. How does a young woman from the twenty-first century deal with being reborn into a world infested with man-eating titans? An OC self-insert.
1. Chapter 1

This is a mildly AU, OC self-insert fiction about the world of Shingeki no Kyojin. Despite how clean the towns looked, I wanted to explore and depict the mechanics of a feudal society in the beginning stages of an industrial revolution, with limited access to some advanced technology.

I must say that writing these first few pages were something of an adventure, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I have.

This chapter is unbeta-ed.

* * *

It was wrong.

It was _wrong_.

Warmth. _Pain_. Icy cold. _Pain_.

Ear-piercing shriek.

Wail.

Blurs.

Icy cold. Grey blobs. Larger grey blobs.

The dimensions and spaces were _wrong_.

Too loud. _Wrong_.

Louder wails. Close wails. Ice beats against face like falling into gravel.

_Wrong_.

Inhale ice, wails stop. Exhale, wail again.

Wait, _what_?

_Something's not right._

Blink, blurry upside-down figure flips around completely. Grey blob becomes vaguely humanoid.

Blink again. Grey humanoid figure flips and flickers back and forth.

_It's upside-down._

Wooziness.

Pain spreads across the back, pressure as the scratchy blanket digs into my tender skin. _I've been handed to another blob._

How?

Where?

Wha-?

Warmth. The prickle of cloth scratches against my too-sensitive skin as I shift around.

Inhale, wailing stops. Hitch breath, and that all-encompassing siren isn't there anymore.

And without further ado, I passed out unceremoniously in the arms of the midwife to comforting murmurs in a foreign tongue.

My name was once Emma Roberts. Now they call me Lisa Martin. I was welcomed into the world on January nineteenth, the year '835' by the new calendar.

I was just glad that I couldn't remember exactly what had happened when I was born. What I went through afterward? That was almost mortifying and traumatizing enough to send me over the edge.

Diaper changes, burping, and _breastfeeding_…

_Ugh_.

I'll spare you the monotony of a baby's life. Moments of intellectual stimulation remained few and far between, compounded by the fact that I was separated from my new parents by a language barrier. I was both glad and annoyed that this young body needed so much sleep. Time passed quickly when I was unconscious, but aside from being carried around I wasn't really able to _do_ anything except lay in the crib.

Until the milestones happened, of course.

_Teething_.

Joy.

Itchy gums aside, there was nothing to do. The all-encompassing boredom left little for me but sleep. So sleep I did, until I needed to be fed, or changed.

As I grew I noticed strange things about my new home, like the lack of modern appliances. Everything smelt earthier, more _alive_. And it was _quiet_ in a way that only remote or rural areas could achieve.

I was surprised when I first saw a horse-drawn carriage. Mom and dad laughed at the exaggerated expression of bewilderment I had made as the animals plodded past.

Funny thing was, I never realized where I _was_ until my family traveled to the nearby Shiganshina district to buy… something. I can't remember what it was, really.

But what I do remember was that when I saw the Walls, I cried.

I recognized them.

I recognized them and _remembered_.

I remembered a life where I was safe. A life where I had a stable job. A life where Attack on Titan was merely a story that I enjoyed reading.

I remembered that I _died_.

A large white pickup filling the windshield as I drove my car, a screech of tires when I was rammed into the center divider of the freeway, then _nothing._

I cried harder, and my new mother and father were forced to stop the carriage to try to calm me down, quietly encouraging in their strange, Germanic language.

I tired myself out and quieted, and the carriage moved on.

When I roused myself into awareness a few hours later, I knew with painful certainty there was a greater than one-in-five chance I would die within the next decade.

_I don't want to die again._

A year and a half flew by. I learned to toddle and began to absorb the language, helped along by the small carved toys father made. I babbled as babies often were wont to do, trying and failing to produce intelligible sounds. Mother and father thought it was adorable.

Studies in my old life had showed that children's brains learned languages much more easily than adults, but I didn't know if it would affect my learning curve at all. It might or might not have – it wasn't like my native language was spoken here, so I was forced to start thinking in Commons anyhow.

This new language was incredibly _strange._ The sentence structure was nothing like I had encountered in my past life and the characters most closely resembled the 'Wingdings' setting on my old typing program. And despite it all, _Commons still sounded like German_. Don't even get me started on the _puns_…

There were more than _three_ ways to say she/they, all dependent upon the subject and verb conjugation. "It" and "eats"; "more" and "sea"; and "hate" and "have" kept being sources of frustration and embarrassment as I lisped my way through toddlerhood.

Another year passed, winter came through, and I, though still uncoordinated, was moving around much more easily. My tiny vocabulary expanded and saw me reading short stories and communicating in (very) basic sentences. Small bits of charcoal scribbled over leftover blocks of smooth wood helped my dexterity improve.

I was very fond of swirlie shapes and scratches suspiciously reminiscent of the English alphabet.

I was probably seen as an odd child by my parents. Quiet by nature, I made sure to behave myself as well as I could. I wasn't what one would describe as _focused_, but I _did_ keep to myself.

Father was an open man, who was skilled in carpentry, commerce, and farming. He worked and cared for his family with a passion, his never-ending cheeriness continually lighting up our home and lives. He was also a favorite with the traders, keeping up with the news of the demand in the inner city and swapping speculation that was more accurate than not.

Mother loved us all in her cool and distant way, but possessed a kind of intelligent, logical fierceness that would overwhelm anyone foolish enough to harm those she called her own. She was an introvert, but knew how to work with people and organize plans with an efficiency that I had still been attempting to figure out in my past life.

We didn't live in an isolated area; Shiganshina was a two day travel to the west and we lived near one of the larger villages; a mere three miles from the edge of our property. We were incredibly fortunate to live here; it was one of the more peaceful areas in the outer wall, unmolested by the roving gangs and bands of bandits that plagued the outer ring. It was an agricultural and woodworking town without any major investors, and as a result was relatively poor. We were out of the way, off of the beaten path, known only for our cheap foodstuffs and rustic furniture.

But things were _different_ here.

Instead of country borders, we had the Walls.

Instead of plumbing, we had outhouses.

Instead of medicine, we had superstition intermixed with steampunk-esque germ theory and _tradition_.

_Tradition,_ I thought with a mental sneer, _which killed the sister I could have had_. I was around two and a half years old. The pain in mother's voice, the despairing screams from outside as the news was delivered...

The midwife had prescribed poultices of lemongrass and mint, and possessed a fist-sized ruby that she claimed would ease the pains of childbirth if held.

Before I died, I came from a first-world country. Waking up here was a shock - the contrast between the sterilized clinics I was used to and what we had _now_ was shocking. I was sure it was different in the inner cities. It was common knowledge that they had better food, medical care, and living quality while we lived like serfs.

While our town was not necessarily the most geographically furthest from Mitras, we may as well have been. Any method of communication between us and the city was little more than a horseback mounted town crier. Maybe two, if the news was big enough or involved taxes.

We generally lived a comfortable life. We held a choice piece of farmland and were one of the major suppliers of food for our town. As a result we were, at the very least, tolerated by the general population. We were never truly _accepted_ into the fold of the city, however; the village as a whole produced carpentry, woodworking, and other wood-based wares that took skill from years of painstaking effort. We were the 'odd' family in a town of individuals who had lived there for _generations_.

Our history didn't help our reputation, either. The mother who left Trost, the father with the deeply scarred face, the strange child with too-old eyes.

We might have been welcomed, yes, but we never _truly_ fit in.

I always startled myself whenever I accidentally looked into the single small mirror hanging on our living room wall, with my childish face that looked so much like my mother's, with straight black hair and brown eyes.

* * *

Today was a balmy spring morning, around five years since the day I had been reborn. The skies had become clear, bright, and cool enough to work in without having to worry too much about sunburn or dehydration. Wind rustled through the two-week old grass, shaking the dew onto the ground.

I hauled a piece of wood toward my father, who was hefting an axe over the chopping block. I clumsily fumbled with the log and dropped it near the pile. My father stopped his steady chopping and looked over at me with a smile. As he ruffled my sweaty black hair, I smiled back at his sun-kissed Belgian features and straight brown hair, reaching for his scar-marred face.

A memento from a bear he fought, he said.

A voice called to me, over from the vegetable garden at the front of our house, "Lisa! Come here please!"

"Coming, mom!" I replied, grinning towards my father before I bolted away.

There was a man there. A brown haired man in factory-made clothes with a pair of round glasses on his face. He looked down at me with kind eyes, curious eyes.

"This is your daughter, Irma? She's beautiful."

His face was _familiar_.

Mother glowed with pleasure as she looked down at me. I felt my face smooth into comforting blankness, and my mother's smile faltered slightly.

I knew I didn't act like normal children (and how could I with these memories? It wasn't like I had another child to measure my intelligence and behavior against), and I _knew_ that my mother knew, but we usually pretended it didn't matter. Right now, I couldn't bring myself to care. I had a more frightening thing to deal with.

Memories from years ago swirled around my mind.

"How old is she?" the kind faced man wondered, breaking the awkward silence I had inadvertently caused.

"I'm five years old, sir." I responded before my mother could. I felt myself vibrating with tension, and forced my uncoordinated child's body to stand as still as I could. I barely managed to limit my movements to several small twitches.

I _remembered_ this man.

Mother hastened to apologize on my behalf without looking at me. "I'm sorry, she's so young, she doesn't understand."

He nodded agreeably and waved my mother's concern off. "It's no trouble. I have a son her age." He looked down at me once again, readjusting the briefcase he held in his hand. Something made of glass rolled around and clinked inside.

I watched his face darken briefly in thought, then lighten as if recalling something, before settling down into a kind, curious, almost analytical look.

"May I please…?" he trailed off, vaguely gesturing at me.

My mother nodded hurriedly before walking closer to me, kneeling down in front of me and placing her hands on my shoulders.

"This man is Doctor Yeager. He's a physician from the Shiganshina district."

Grisha Yeager. This man was _famous_ here. Before I was born he almost singlehandedly quelled a plague that had decimated the population of the outer cities. He was a genius of medicine, cheapening treatments almost as often as he pioneered new ones. His tireless work had saved _thousands_ of lives.

He also invented a serum that allowed Eren to shift into a Titan. Yes, I _knew_ who this man was. I felt my throat quiver, but swallowed. Why? We were one family, thrown to the back end of beyond. Why did he come _here_ and not some other family? This man was _important_ in a way that the people here _weren't_. We weren't involved in making _history_. We were nobodies.

"What's he doing here?"

Mother smiled gently at me. "He says that has a drug that will keep you from getting sick."

I blinked, and memories filtered through my mind.

A giant shadow losing control, attacking everything within reach. A limb consumed by a monster and regrown. Harpoons from guns that had been speared out into too-light flesh stripped of all skin. _Capture for study_.

I shook my head. "No."

Near the fence, the man pulled a syringe from the container, a bottle of a cloudy liquid, and a bottle of a clear liquid.

"Lisa… For your mother, hmm?"

"No. He's too…" I struggled for a word, any word. I held my hand out to gesture towards something but stopped halfway. It was shaking.

Mother clasped my hand in her large one. It was warm, dry.

"He says it's been tested, but he needs have more proof before he can make some for everyone. Sharing a cure is a _good_ thing, and he needs help from _our_ family."

She sounded so _honored,_ so _happy._ And why wouldn't she? To her, this was an opportunity of a lifetime – a chance to preserve her daughter's _life_. I looked at her face, fear drawing my brow together into a pinched knot.

And I shook my head no.

Human experimentation, though not entirely condoned by the monarchy, was still socially acceptable. I had read recent history books detailing how scientists determined similarity between diseases.

I had read about a Riker Smith who had deliberately infected the volunteers under his care with various diseases before exposing them to other, much deadlier ones after the initial infection had run its course. The story was unsettlingly familiar to a medical practitioner called Edward Jenner who deliberately exposed his patients to _smallpox_ to test his theories.

Restrictions on trades, anything from mining to cloth-making really, were practically nonexistent. Medical technology was approached with a similar hands-off attitude, so long as a plague wasn't started by their actions.

My mind was screaming, shouting at me. Memories, both new and old, pleas for self-preservation.

I don't want to get involved with whatever he wanted. _They_ _fear-_ Attention was bad, even from a man – _who turned his own son into a monster_ – from Shiganshina. Five years and we'll be _dead_. _Don't give yourself more pain, you already lost everything_. The doctor's _here,_ girl! Wake up!

_I shouldn't be here anyway._

_I don't want to _die_._

_Even though you know you'll probably just wake up again? It happened once, who's to say that it won't happen again?_ A traitorous voice hissed.

I felt like I had to run, but my feet were lead. _Classic symptoms of a panic attack_. Adrenaline made everything super-sharp and slow, almost as if a razor had carved out every shadow, edge, and nuance of the fields and forest around me. _I was helpless as he drew nearer, mother's gentle grasp preventing me from turning away._ The grass whistled. _The plunger was pressed down on the syringe._ The river hissed in the distance.

I later found out that he had learned about our family from a shamefaced whisper by an old man. A whisper that mentioned the family that kept to themselves.

That day I learned. People talked, even more than we knew.

And some people, important people, even deign to listen and act.

* * *

I had always expected to lose my sense of self after the Shot for some reason. Eren's memories were practically blocked out by the injection he received – why should I be any different?

As if mocking me, my old memories simply became clearer and more vivid as my new body aged. Perhaps I was simply overreacting and I received a dud shot. Maybe it didn't work.

I steadfastly ignored how I never seemed to get chilled anymore, even though I used to never go anywhere without my jacket and long pants. I didn't get sick when the cowpox epidemic swept through the town.

My parents smiled, and _knew_.

But they didn't, not really. They didn't _know_ what was going to happen in a handful of years. They didn't _know_ the full implications of doctor Yeager's research.

I never let myself become injured enough to draw blood.

I still wrote the important things down in English, a language no one knew, and passed it off as childish scribbles. I begged to learn how to make soap and stole baking powder to make toothpaste so I could follow my 'strange' hygiene habits from my old life.

And I _was_ strange. There were things I did that set me as different from other people. Customs taken for granted from my previous life were totally alien here. I didn't accept the first gift I was given because I had no idea that it was the_ custom _here to give and receive,_ even if you had nothing_.

Little offenses like that set me apart even in my own home. They loved me, still. But they were aware that there was something _different_ about me.

I would sometimes hum a song from my old life, and I would look up to meet the curious eyes of my mother.

Neither of my parents could carry a tune.

Years ago, before I had turned two, it I had been mourning the loss of everything I once knew without being able to communicate my grief to anyone.

Disbelief gave way to anger, and anger to desperation. Desperation turned to despair, and I was forced to turn to occupying my mind so I could accept the fact that _I was no longer in my own world anymore_.

I replaced some things that could be replaced, substituted other things that could be substituted, and accepted the loss of things lost forever.

I learned.

I learned from father how to coax the grain into stalks higher than the top of his head, and to draw the plants from parched fields with the irrigation ditches. I learned how to survive in the open, to snare, kill, and prepare animals for consumption. I learned to live outside.

I learned how to care for the wooden furniture, how to repair and make my own clothes, how to cook. I learned proper etiquette (don't make any physical contact, bow or nod your head in greeting), language skills (it's _rife_, not _riff_!), and how to care for our fruit trees. I learned to live inside.

I learned folk wisdom.

How when there was a cold to starve the patient and to feed him or her whenever there was a fever, that spicy food caused ulcers, and that a mother may lose her teeth to the stork for bringing a baby to the house (hah). That for a burning bladder, we needed to buy the red cranberries from the north city as soon as we could; failing that, to drink as much clean water as possible.

I learned about the politics, of how the corruption inside of the city was rampant, and of how the struggles of the average villager mostly consisted of where the next meal came from. I learned of finance, and of the religion.

And so we endured. My parents with their strange child that they loved; me with my strange family that I loved (_but they were_ normal_ like everyone else, weren't they?_).

I grew older.

There was school. A purgatory of filthy, screaming brats that fought, bit, and howled without ceasing. The harried caretakers attempted to watch a hundred of us, all of different ages inside one small room annexed to the city hall.

I informed my father of the situation, and I was taken out. I could still help with the light chores on the farm, after all.

A year passed, and they tried again.

It wasn't so bad at first, but when we were left to our own devices I was assaulted by a brat three times my size. An old self-defense class told me to step _here_, twist _here_, trip _here_, and the boy was thrown into a wall. I ran off into the crowd of students and met a girl. I told her to give me her calico jacket, and I threw my grey one behind an overgrown bush near the far side of the playground.

Her name was Fran.

Long haired, blonde, and blue eyed with a fondness for ponytails; she was a child. And as children are wont to do, she giggled, laughed, and played.

She was also an orphan.

"Meh, I can't remember my parents anyways. Hey, let's go steal all the chalk after the stories! That'll show Mr. Kreef!"

Mr. Kreef was the teacher.

I shrugged, plucking a blade of grass and sliding it between the pages of the small book I had stolen from one of the traders. Standing, I stretched and replied, "If you think you can. Don't wait for me to come save you when you get caught."

She shrieked with laughter and flopped down onto her back.

"You're always so _sad_, Lisa!" She suddenly jumped up, pointing at a small insect that was floating past on the spring breeze. "Come on, let's get you a ladybug!"

I sighed and jogged behind her.

At the school, we were taught the basics, little things.

We learned our numbers, our colors. We learned the seasons, and the years. We learned of our great king in the center of the city. Our wise generals who kept the walls guarded. Of our brave men and women who risked their lives by leaving and fighting the titans.

I never mentioned the fact that our walls had never before been breached, that the guards were cowards, that the king was an incompetent fat man who was drunk off of wine, sweetmeats, and his own popularity.

I returned home that day saddened, but knew that this was what made countries run and kept the populous in check.

Not that I was one to talk. But it was difficult, mentally, to live in a pre-industrial society when you had a college education.

(I had been indoctrinated by older, smarter people. People who had studied the mind for years and _years_. I still felt nostalgia for my old home, whenever I even thought of its _name_.)

But I lived. I had done so for five years, I would continue.

* * *

A half a year later I saw him again. Yeager, that is.

Father was relaying the tale of when he was forced to fight off a bear to save our three cows just as I walked in. Smiling happily at me, mother waved me to the table where she sat within arm's reach of the doctor. I obeyed with a frown and watched the conversation.

Eventually the story concluded with the bear running off, holding our newly bought shovel in between its teeth as my father chased it with a pitchfork. Doctor Yeager roared with laughter, and my parents joined in.

He asked if he could follow up on his tests, and they agreed.

"I have a son your age, you know," he began conversationally. I nodded and hummed in acknowledgement, watching as he pulled an empty syringe out.

"Yes, you'd probably be a good friend for him," he mused aloud. "He's quite the determined young man. He's been talking about heroes for the past month," he chuckled as he placed a needle into the empty glass container. "What do you want to be when you grow up, dear?"

I pursed my lips and didn't say anything. The doctor hesitated, surprised, then moved toward the crook of my elbow.

"Please make it fast?" I asked for the first time, screwing up my face in an unconsciously childlike preparation for pain. I always hated needles.

He nodded, and a tiny pinprick later he had what he wanted. I held the elbow tightly closed as I waited for my parents to conclude their business.

I held my peace until the doctor offered my parents a pouch that shifted heavily with the clink of currency inside of it.

I felt my stomach turn and drop to my shoes. I couldn't hold my surprise or disgust back as I pointed at the purse in betrayal.

"You did _this,_" I hissed, "For _money_?"

"Not now, child." My mother ordered, pointing to the back bedroom we shared.

I howled in anger and fled into the back room. Before I reached the door, I heard Yeager quietly addressing my father, "…she's a very smart girl, Anton. Did she ever…?"

I slammed the door as hard as I could and jumped under my covers.

They scolded me later that night. I was told that since we had that money, we could now live more comfortably, that it was enough to live for half a year on. That he would always give us more money so I had a better life. So I could go to school, so I could become an inner city worker.

By the time my parents had finished talking, I was shaking in place. I stood slowly and walked outside of the house, making sure that my parents could hear me sit on the bench.

My arms slowly fell to my sides after I relaxed. I twitched them back into position as fast as I could – _what if the vein was still bleeding? _– but stopped when I didn't feel any pain.

Curiously, I scraped away at the crumbling scab. Only smooth, unscarred skin remained.

* * *

I may have given the thought of 'fitting in' a token effort before, but I was motivated to try my hardest to truly _belong_ after that night.

Fran was an excellent measuring stick to judge what was and was not acceptable for kids to do at the time. Father may have looked at me strangely after I actually acted like a kid for once, but the trader never batted an eyelash at my 'childish' glee as I picked up and played with the tiny knitted animals.

Unseen by both adults, I slipped a blank journal and an ink pen into my pocket.

* * *

"…Lisa? Lii-saaa~?" Fran sang as I blinked awake.

Darn this childish body and its need for naptime.

"I'm up…" I groaned as I hauled myself upright. Today was the last day of classes, and Fran had dragged me to her favorite tree once again. "What's going on, Fran?" I groaned as I tried to stand up. Blood rushed from my head and I felt woozy.

"I can't believe it! They're giving us all _bread_ for lunch, all because of the _festival_! You hungry~?" She teased and giggled. I shrugged and started to follow her after she turned and ran to the line.

It was year 841. I had four years until the Wall would be breached.

"Guess what?"

"Hmm? What's that?" I blinked. I looked down and noticed I was holding a piece of bread. That's odd, I was really out of it if I didn't notice her handing me food.

Ah well, Fran always was speedy for her age.

"Miss Amara came to the house today!" Fran chirped, racing toward the tall fence that kept us all inside. "Come on, Lisa!" I followed along, stopping when we reached the far corner. Fran huddled into a ball and waved me closer to her.

I nodded, settling down cross-legged. Sometimes these stories could go on _forever_…

"So, today our oatmeal was _horrible_, and I _knew_ something was gonna happen!" She giggled sitting down with her legs splayed everywhere.

"Miss Amara comes in, right? She got us all into a group and told us to follow her to one of those old schoolrooms we're _never_ allowed in!" She jumps in place excitedly. "She says we can grow up to be _anything_! She said we can be a doctor, or a, a fire-cart racer! Or a librarian!" she squealed in excitement. "But _I _don't want to do boring stuff like _that_!"

I laugh. "Boring stuff, Fran? Those are really good jobs for when you grow up."

"There you go again, Li-_sa,_" she sing-songed and pouted. "You sound like an old person when you talk like _that_!"

I shook my head and snickered, deciding to humor her. "Then what do you want to be when you grow up?"

Fran's grin seemed as if it were about to split her face in two. She looked wildly around her to make sure no one was near enough to overhear her and then scooted closer to me for good measure.

"I thought, well, _those_ jobs are _boring_!" She began animatedly, if hushed, "You just sit around all day and tell funny-sounding stories that are sad. So I'll do a job that's better! I'm gonna…" She leaned near my ear and I tilted my head closer to her, "join the army an' get into the Survey Corps!"

Oh.

Oh dear.

My voice was quiet, barely there.

"Why, Fran?"

"I _told_ you, silly!" She giggled and leaned back, throwing her arms out, "It's the best job in the _world_! And I get to help people!"

Please, please _no_.

"But… you could…" I trailed off. Fran looked at me in concern.

Did she really realize the _mortality_ rate? Did she even comprehend the fact that she probably would _never come back_?

"I'll help humanity! It's the best way I can!" She declared, and I felt my stomach sink.

…She really thought that it would help…?

Damn it. Damn this city and its propaganda. Damn it and its cowardly people. Damn it and its _ideals_.

"You really believe that…" I mused. I stood up and walked towards the building. Before I got too far, I stopped and turned towards Fran. Her face was wide-eyed, lost.

Oh. She had just told me her biggest secret, and I _didn't seem to care_.

I softened my expression and walked back towards her again, giving her a quick side-hug. She squeaked, scuttling off to the side.

"You know," I began, "If you truly want to go and do this, I can't stop you." Fran nodded, and was about to open her mouth to say something before I held up a finger to stop her, "Ah-ah! I'm not done!" She closed her mouth with a pout, some of her unquenchable happiness beginning to bubble up into her eyes again, "For my sake, please, please, _please_ think of another job – any other, before joining up. Just in case."

Fran pouted, big blue eyes wobbling, "But all those other jobs are bo-ring!" She jumped up, "I want to be a hero and help everyone!"

"Please?" I wheedled, "Promise me? You can still be a hero at home, silly."

She sighed and pouted, "O-kay, you frowny-face. I pinkie promise."

She held out her pinkie for emphasis. With a solemn air, I reached forward and sealed the most sacred playground oath with the gravitas of a judge.

"Race you to the trees!" Fran shouted, bolting.

* * *

There was an abandoned well on the property.

That night, I took some of dad's new rope into my room and spent the next three hours or so tying knots for a rope ladder.

There was a thunderstorm brewing overhead - I counted myself extremely lucky for that as I walked to the old covered well.

_Did I really want to do this? Is there even any guarantee that I could survive the next four years?_

I hauled a plank of wood off of the opening and pushed it to the side.

I tied one end of the rope to the posed in the most secure way I could and threw the rope into the well. I heard the fabric slip against the stone walls and hit the dirt floor with an audible 'whap'. Looking around once more, I slowly lowered myself down.

The rope was knotted, and the walls were made of rough stone. There were plenty of handholds and footholds for me to brace myself against.

I quickly hit the bottom and walked towards the center. The clouds blocked out any light that may have reached down from the moon or stars, leaving me in near pitch-blackness. I shuddered and sat down in the middle.

Blinking my blinded eyes, I slowly drew my hand to my mouth.

And I bit down as hard as I could.

* * *

** End**

Did you know...?

According to Laura Helmuth's article, "The Disturbing, Shameful History of Childbirth Deaths," a common danger facing mothers was the risk of 'puerperal fever.' This infection was often caused by the unsterilized hands of the midwife or doctor. Sometimes, if the birth was exceptionally difficult or the midwive attending was suitably unskilled, the midwife would crack the skull of the baby, killing it but sparing the mother. Irma is very fortunate that her second child was merely stillborn.

I will keep my works cited page separate from FanFiction as having a Works Cited page constitutes as "Authors Notes" and would stand in violation of the Fanfiction terms of service. I can and will provide this works cited page upon request - send me a PM and I'll do my best.

I really appreciate feedback and jealously covet your reviews.


	2. Chapter 2

Well, this one turned out a little bit shorter than the last. Hopefully it'll be more streamlined and focused.

I would also like to publicly thank White Ink Penpal, who wrote the first review _ever_ for this story!

*confetti showers everywhere*

This chapter is unbeta-ed.

* * *

_I've been pushing this off…_

Incisors sliced into flesh.

_I've been too afraid to confirm the slightest possibility…_

For a moment, everything was still.

_But I need to_ fight_ for my second chance._

And I was numb.

_I don't want to_ die!

A heartbeat passed in silence.

Then blood seeped from the wound, filling up my mouth with a coppery tang. I involuntarily jerked back, opening my mouth barely in time to avoid ripping more of my skin.

Nerves burned in the torn skin.

It hurt.

Stifling a shriek into a quiet whimper, I rolled onto my side. Pain shot up my arm and curled in my chest.

_Of_ course_ it hurt – what did I expect, a brush of cool velveteen?_ I thought distantly, sardonically.

My eyes streamed, and my hand throbbed horribly in time with my heartbeat. Instructions from an old first-aid class from my old life had me clamping my bleeding wound between my knees to try to stop the blood flow.

For the first time in almost three months, I felt chilled. Shock, I realized distantly. That's what I was feeling.

I keened quietly as the throbbing in my hand intensified.

* * *

I was exhausted by the time I had hauled myself up from the well.

How _stupid_ – biting the hand that I needed in order to _climb the rope. _

The wound had begun bleeding again during my hurried exertions. I held it away from my body as it dripped, blinking in surprise at the steaming splatters of blood on the ground.

Well, I'm pretty sure _that's_ not normal. I slowly gathered the rope, replaced the plank, and dragged my sorry carcass home while trying desperately to not drip blood on my clothes.

I wasn't a Titan shifter.

In all honesty, was I really so special? That a simple pinprick would have given me the ability to switch back and forth between a titan body at will? How many other people did Doctor Yeager have to test on before getting it _right?_

I stopped cold at the realization, an icy chill working its way down my spine.

_Formulas never work out perfectly the first time._

I probably wasn't the first trial. There must have been others before me. We had rats in abundance, but Rhesus monkeys weren't native to Europe. There was a small safety net to the testing, but not to the same extent that 'first world countries' had access to.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and a raindrop hit my face. I flinched as a jet of steam exploded from my cheek. I covered my head as more rain hissed against my overheated skin. I carefully made my way into the house without waking anyone. My hand pulsed in pain, and the heat radiating off of me left a halo of heavy, muggy air around my body.

Falling into bed with a defeated sigh, I held my wounded hand in front of my face and watched in fascination as the skin steamed, bubbled, and drew back together. It was surprisingly painless.

To make a formula this complex… It either spoke of a level of ingenuity on the level of Einstein or Hawking, or the determination of a sociopath greater than Josef Mengele.

I was leaning toward the latter with a generous helping of the first. Children copy their parents; Eren was a focused bastard even before his mother died.

But in all honesty, I was lucky that nothing _major_ happened to me aside from the obvious. I was just a lab rat... A lab rat treated with a formula that lacked the _five extra years of research_ that would go into the one Eren would have...

Five _years_ of research…

I was so _stupid._ What if something had happened and I wasn't able to get myself out of that pit? A partial transformation I couldn't have gotten out of? Something that would have suffocated me in the dark?

I'll say it again - I was so _stupid._

I groaned and slammed my head against the hard straw mattress.

Ow.

Now what? I wondered as I lay there, hand and skull steadily throbbing.

I probably wouldn't survive the next few years. I was living within a doomed wall that would fall to the titans, with only the unusable memories of a previous life to warn me of the coming danger. The series had only been in its first fifty-four or so chapters when I had gotten around to reading it. Besides, it's not like having any kind of regeneration could help my survivability – one well placed Titan hand or foot, and I'd be _dead._ I _hated_ knowing barely anything more than the people around me.

I was _spoiled_ with my 'higher education' and what little knowledge of this world that I had; I had been completing my Master's in mathematics at a university in the United States before my little _accident_ had happened.

It was more about perspective, I guess. I was tired of living around people who, though _smart,_ didn't know how to step back from the situation and _think;_ who barely considered the option of asking _why. _

It wasn't part of the culture to question the status quo; it just was_.  
_

That curiosity was stamped out of them at the earliest opportunity.

Exhausted, I relaxed into the mattress as my temperature normalized to something barely under scalding. The wound closed completely, and I let my hand drop.

* * *

Life went on.

School ended, another expedition was made by the Survey Corps, and Fran had fallen even more in love with the idea of joining up.

I shook my head in exasperation at her excited babble as we sat in the shade of a tree at my house. I never really brought this up to anyone, but I felt that joining the military wasn't one of the wisest choices we had. Sure, we could learn how to use the extremely dangerous 3DMG, and we would have a reliable, well-paying job with benefits, but frankly, I preferred sitting in the shade with a good book or racing one of our horses through the forests or fields.

Case in point, I was curled up beside one of our maple trees, reading yet another book I had filched from the summer caravan.

One not-so-surprising thing about this place was that books were _expensive._ A horse was worth anywhere from thirty silver pieces to one gold piece and change, but a _book?_ You could buy _four_ books for the same amount as a horse, depending on the amount of paper it was printed on. It was remarkable that my parents even had those two thin children's readers in the first place.

Fran poked my shoulder, voicing her irritation at my lack of interest in playing tag.

I turned another page and ignored her.

Fran pouted, but then left me and ran off towards the house.

I had introduced my parents to Fran on the last day of school, and they welcomed her into our family with open arms. As it went, Fran had a lot of free time on her hands and the staff at the orphanage was chronically overworked. She was almost never noticed when she left, and since she wasn't a nuisance to society, the adults generally turned a blind eye to her wanderings around town.

And why _should_ they bother? She was just an orphan and wasn't their problem. They had their own lives to worry about.

Farm work was hard, but Fran was more than willing to do what she could to stick around me and my family. It was cute, in a way, how she always hung nearby. It probably wasn't as surprising as it could have been – I was something of an older sister to her, and whenever I visited her at the orphanage the caretakers there were always preoccupied with keeping all children under the age of eleven fed, clothed, and somewhat warm. She had no concrete role model, and I probably fit the bill since I both appeared to be her age, while having the added maturity of memories from before.

I wasn't a mother in my past life, but I did know how to work with children.

As time went on, we worked out a kind of unacknowledged understanding – I would always keep an eye on her, and she in turn would help me out when I needed it.

She was _inordinately_ useful as a distraction. She had the kind of mind that could adapt to most of the situations presented to her. I did my best to encourage those problem-solving skills, and it showed surprisingly quickly. She was a smart little kid, if a bit too naive.

I heard a high shriek of laughter come from around the corner of the house, and looked up just as Fran bolted past me. Father chased her with arms outstretched. Fran was holding a small rabbit.

The poor thing looked terrified.

I turned back to my book. It was _frustrating,_ learning a new language after having _two decades_ of experience with another. Having my expansive vocabulary rendered useless was _not_ pleasant. It was humiliating sounding out words while my mother peered over my shoulder and corrected my pronunciation. Yes, it was an entirely new language, but I was a grown woman, I wanted to read, and read _quickly._

Of course, it was a very slow process.

I flipped the page, and looked at an illustration of a seven-meter class titan. A butt-ugly seven-meter class titan. The thing had stick-thin arms and a beer belly.

It was a history text. I was surprised that the trader had it in the first place, though we did have a small library in the town. I skimmed through the page. A breeze rustled the leaves of the tree I was sitting under. I looked up at the gently waving branches and sighed.

In the year 845, there would be an attack on the outer walls.

I had always done my best to make sure that my parents knew that for my tenth birthday I wanted to take a month-long trip inside of the second wall. In the summer, after the field was planted and the rains had come. I kept asking until they relented, thinking this was one of my 'strange ideas'.

The weather had been fair, with thick grass and flowers when the Titans invaded in the TV series, and it _always_ snows in the winter.

I _really_ hoped that what I remembered was accurate.

It had been difficult to convince my parents. It was hard enough setting aside time for even a day off of work, they said, but a whole _month?_ You should know how difficult it is if the weather doesn't follow the usual patterns, mother chided me. She was referring to a winter two years ago, just before I had gotten the Shot.

* * *

Ice a half meter thick covered the river, and new taxes had been a burden on everyone around the town. Overall, it had been a bad season for all of us - on top of that it hadn't been a good _day_ – we had lost several of our year-old cattle to the below-zero temperatures, some of our fruit trees had fractured their trunks in the freeze, and a fox had gotten into the henhouse and killed my pet chicken.

While we all sat near the fire waiting for a blizzard to blow through, I had bitterly informed my parents of my less-than-charitable views of our _oh-so-glorious_ government, specifically the military.

After all, the wall guards were cowards (why else would they never go and fight the titans?), the scouting legion was made up of insane suicidal sociopaths _(that_ particular branch attracts destructive personalities like flies to honey, I scoffed, you've heard the stories about _Levi),_ and the royal guard was lazy and corrupt (who's ever heard of any of them actually _doing_ anything?).

They told me in no uncertain terms was I to ever to tell anyone what I had said.

And it _was_ an _extremely_ dangerous opinion to have. There were records of nobles being executed for less. What I had just outlined was downright _seditious._ A capital offense.

Mother turned back to her knitting, and father to his carving. The fire roared in the hearth in the wall of the house furthest from me. I held a book in my hand, cocooned in a pillow fort with no less than three blankets.

* * *

It was funny how some things had stayed the same, while others had changed.

Sweat beaded on my forehead, even though the temperature was a 'cool' twenty-five degrees Celsius. I never really felt the cold anymore after Doctor Yeager came and gave me his treatment. It was uncomfortable to put on more than two layers of clothing whenever I went outside in the winter, unless the wind chill dropped the temperatures into the negatives.

Fran always joked that I was a natural furnace, and that they should sell copies of me as house stoves.

Summers, on the other hand, were _brutal._

I was sure that we lived close to some huge body of water, maybe even a lake. It was the only explanation I could have for the humidity that bogged _everything_ down. The horses would loll their heads under the few shade trees in their paddock while the birds wouldn't do more than give token squawks when their fellow brethren waddled too close on accident.

And the bugs.

Oh, the _bugs._

Flies and gnats _everywhere._ And not the kind that just annoyed you, oh no. The kind that _stung,_ the kind that _bit,_ and there were quite a number that were venomous and moderately aggressive. The city never fared well either. The stench of refuse and unwashed bodies always cloyed the streets, and the trading business would come to a grinding halt.

I, with my unnaturally high body temperature, was _not_ a happy camper. An old canteen that I had salvaged and patched up became my nearest and dearest companion whenever summer rolled around.

Speaking of my unfortunate plight, the good doctor generally made follow-up checkups with our family whenever the seasons changed. Springtime and fall, almost like clockwork. He would take a blood sample and store it in a small cold-chest, ask me or my parents some questions, trade local rumors and news with my parents, and then leave.

He always left a coin purse.

I pretended not to notice.

_Things are_ different _here_, I would have to remind myself, and swallow bile.

Bribery and silence money was par for the course in this society. Yes, there were the upstanding citizens that refused to condone bribes, but that was usually because they could afford to. The truth was that bribes were a necessity of life if you wanted any hope in living any less uncomfortably.

But that was only if you were 'lucky' enough to have a 'benefactor'.

I shuddered to think of what other families could be subjected to.

It didn't help that most of the successful individuals in the cities were men.

Money was _always_ tight. Not enough so that it was impossible to make a living, but it was extraordinarily difficult to better your own standing in society simply through hard work.

Emotionally…

It was hard on me. Having been raised as an American, I valued freedom, or at least the illusion of it. I felt as if I were a piece of chattel to be bought and sold at leisure, and what made it worse was that this situation smacked of backdoor politics and illegality.

I would forgive my parents – it was hard not to when they cared for me so much – but I knew that I couldn't trust them to protect me from some things.

And yet...

I couldn't help but love them.

It was impossible _not_ to, with how well they had cared for me and how they loved me unconditionally. I was fortunate enough to have been born into one of those few families that weren't dysfunctional. They may not have been my first parents, but it's hard to hate someone who helped you through all of those little milestones that we all take for granted.

Like toilet training.

But I was also, mentally, an adult. And as an adult, I valued my independence and the safety of having fallback options. I _refused_ to simply let myself be swept away by my dependency on my parents.

* * *

End

Did you know...?

In the late nineteenth century, the lithotype and monotype machines became widely used in the book trade due to their efficiency and ease of typesetting. Whole books were typed on a typewriter and printed out this way.

As always, feedback is much appreciated. Please leave a review!


	3. Chapter 3

And so the saga continues! Welcome to the next installment, those of you who are new. And to those who favorited or followed my story, welcome back! Thank you for the support, I really appreciate it.

The following was initially a response to **Kenegi**'s kind review, but is still good information for anyone wondering why Lisa's not planning on pulling modern inventions out of her rear end:

I'm basing the level of technology off of 1870's America, with certain exceptions because of the prevalence of 3DMG. Lisa's not introducing inventions like the smartphone because a: she has no idea how to make most of the things we take for granted nowadays, and b: supplies of 'modern' and 'pure' materials or tools are limited, expensive, or nonexistent.

Hopefully we'll see a little more character development in this chapter. Let the plot thicken! Happy reading. :)

This chapter is unbeta-ed - I'm still looking for a better cover image. Or a beta reader. Please message me if you're interested!

* * *

The end of summer came, school began, and I quietly looked to see what was in demand around town.

Food was always a stable market, but was extremely perishable unless canned or preserved. Clothes were necessary, but relatively expensive to make when I was faced with my (nonexistent) funds. I couldn't make my own cloth to sell to the tailors since our farm couldn't support cotton. We already sold fruits to the marketplace, and I wasn't strong enough in my seven-year-old body to seriously think about carpentry. Blacksmithing? Forget it.

That left trinkets, or a job in a service of some kind.

Not many people here wanted carvings because they could just make their own, but apparently there was a demand within the cities on the inner walls for figurines. The traders were extremely fond of original pieces, especially if they were _good._

So I asked father to teach me how to whittle.

Never before was I so glad to have my rapid healing, even if father noticed the small spurts of steam on my fingers after I kept accidentally ripping them open.

He never said anything about it.

Time passed, and I slowly and painfully improved. The whittling tool was bulky, clumsy in my small hands, and _sharp._ More than once I had to wait for a few minutes as a deep cut on my hands bubbled shut.

My first piece was a simple toy horse. It was blocky, it was ugly, but it looked like a _horse._

Dad was so proud. I gave it to him, and he placed it in the middle of his crafts table in the barn.

I always practiced after that; as a result there was a perpetual pile of wood chips on the porch. Mother always was frustrated with me whenever I left a mess on the floor, so she found an old metal pot that wasn't being used and gave it to me for the shavings. We used them as kindling.

My hunt for a job didn't go as well as I was hoping it to. In hindsight, I wasn't a good candidate in the first place, even though it wasn't unheard of to hire small children for factories or mines. The main issue was that we had neither in our village. Our town was a farming and woodworking town, so children usually helped out around the house or in the fields.

Which was great for our household and business, but left me with no way to generate income.

There was a small business for distributing the thin pamphlets that passed as newspapers, and there was a job opening at the local library, but they were looking for children aged eight and older. I was six. I still applied anyway.

The town was small enough so that everyone knew each other, so there was no chance of successfully concealing my age. I just hoped that they wouldn't turn me away immediately. I waited a few days, but found out that an older kid from the orphanage had been selected. Despite how disappointed I was that I had been passed up, I had to admit that the boy they chose for the job needed it much more than me.

I still had a roof over my head, after all.

A half year later, I eventually had to give it up as a loss. I knew that there was a work shortage, but that was mostly in the cities. I was fortunate enough to be in a village that was able to support itself fairly well. The community was so close knit almost everyone knew who to give priority to, be they families with nothing or orphans that were trying to improve their financial situation.

In the cities, industrialism was highly valued and easily taken advantage of. I was so glad we weren't living there. It wasn't really a surprise that I, from a family that held a modest amount of land, wasn't really on the 'priority list.'

I worked on my whittling in the meantime, steadily improving my skills. If I could find someone to buy from me, it looked like it would be my only source of income for quite a while.

* * *

At school, we practiced our writing and reading. Dust and chalk perpetually stained the air whenever the windows were forced closed from the bad weather or cold. Our old slates were always dusty, even after we washed them.

Thunderstorms were extremely common as the seasons changed, bringing with it a depressing combination of rain, muggy weather, and hot humidity. Today was one of _those_ days.

It was hard on all of the children to be cooped up inside. Fran tried _so hard_ to follow the instructor, she really did, but after one too many letters she gave up and started scribbling over a corner of her slate in earnest.

I couldn't blame her. At this point, if I would have killed for a puddle-shallow drugstore novel. Or an instant-cool pack. that last thought actually made me pause and drool a little in longing. An ice pack would be _so_ useful to have on days like this... But I honestly had no idea how to distill or purchase the chemical I needed to make one. Ah well.

I turned back to the purgatory of copying lines, and repressed the urge to just give up and take a nap.

The teacher tapped his papers against the desk suddenly, startling some of the snoozing children. He stood suddenly, and everyone blinked up at him sleepily.

Almost lazily, Mr. Kreef picked up the chalk, erased his previous lines, and began a new set of sentences for us to copy.

The class groaned as one, and my forehead hit my desk with a defeated thump.

* * *

Our town was generally self-sufficient enough that we could buy most of the things we needed for living there, but there were always some things we could only purchase in the nearby Shiganshina district. After much wheedling on my part, we brought Fran along with us on one of our rare trips to the city. Mother and father kept us nearby while they browsed the selections on the main street.

It was about an hour before sunset when it happened.

A mutter, then a shout ran through the crowd. Many turned, then all of a sudden it seemed like everyone in the city started to rush toward the main street. Mother and father had wandered towards the far side of the way, and as a consequence we were separated by a stream of humanity.

"Lisa! Liii-saaaa! They're here! I can't believe it!" Fran squealed. I could still see my parents, so I didn't protest more when she grabbed my hand and hauled me with the press of people closer to a building.

"What's going on?" I called over the chaos around me.

Everyone seemed to have shifted forward in anticipation, craning their necks over shoulders and heads to get a better view. Somewhere far to my left I could hear raised voices as a fight broke out.

"Didn't you hear?" Fran called over the pandemonium, "The _Survey Corps_ are coming! I can't wait to see them!"

Oh. That'd do it. I sighed, but the sound was swallowed up in the crowd. Of _course_ she would get excited about this. Ah well, this was probably the only time we would ever get to see the Corps, I might as well get us to higher ground for a better view.

"Hey, follow me." I tugged her hand, and we ran towards one of the buildings. I helped her get onto the fence to climb up on the roof. I filched some green wood that had been left outside to use as a stool and jumped up to the roof as quickly as possible. By the time I had gotten settled next to Fran, the attitude of the crowd had shifted. The crowd's noise swelled to a dull roar that filled the air as the people below us looked around in curiosity.

The first horse came around the corner, and I was surprised to see the wrinkled face of Commander Keith Shadis and the blond head of Second - in - Command Erwin Smith. Right behind him was Hange Zoe, Mike Zacharias, and Levi. I blinked and almost did a double-take.

Levi was even _tinier_ than I thought.

"Ooh~! So coooooool!" Fran squealed in delight, leaning forward eagerly. I watched the procession silently.

Some people in the Corps talked quietly amongst themselves. Some joked around cheerily, while others proceeded with solemn faces. It was painfully obvious that the only ones that looked happy were the youngest. On the other hand, one or two looked a little bit off-color.

I nudged Fran, and she snapped out of her starry-eyed contemplation of the stream of humanity. "That one looks like he's gonna hurl," I say, carefully deadpan, pointing at a recruit that had colored an interesting shade of green.

Fran shoved me and scowled.

The crowd's reactions were varied. I could hear a few people muttering among themselves that the expeditions were a waste of money and lives. That every time a squad came back defeated, it was another victory for the Titans. Others cheered for family members, and waved them off happily, oblivious to the incredulous looks they were drawing from some of the people.

Most were silent.

I watched with morbid fascination at the wide tapestry of emotions that weaved beneath me.

Despair, sadness, indifference, elation, fear, queasiness, and blankness played across the features of civilian and soldier alike. Fran simply watched in wonder, tales of heroics, bravery, and adventure staining her perceptions perpetually rosy. I could only be grateful that we saw them _leaving_ on an expedition and not _returning._

"They're so brave!" Fran sighed. I sighed and shook my head, not sure whether to be grateful for her naivete or exasperated, and stood. Ignoring Fran's protests to come back, I turned towards the edge of the roof where we had climbed up. I looked down at the procession one last time, and my lips thinned. "I'll be with dad."

"Alright you meanie head…" She scolded me, eyes glued on the procession of soldiers below.

I jumped off of the roof.

* * *

A few weeks later, Fran and I were asked by mother to go gather some necessities from the village general store.

I found myself standing still, the way in front of me blocked by a stubborn cat sitting directly in my path. It was a black cat. It had green eyes. With great care, the cat delicately lifted a paw and began licking it.

I, with great care, began to toss a fist-sized rock up into the air and caught it without looking. And I did it again. And again.

"You know, it's not nice to threaten animals." Fran muttered somewhere behind me to my left.

We were in one of the quieter streets, trying to make our way home with our purchased necessities. Like toilet paper.

I _hated_ this world's TP with a _passion._ We were so far away from the factories that produced them, we would get the ones with the lowest quality. Sometimes the rolls would still have _splinters_ embedded in the paper.

Well, at least I could say that living in this world was always an adventure…

"I didn't throw a rock," I said as I kept up my rhythm.

"Maaah, you're thinkin' about it…" Fran yawned.

The cat, now done with grooming its paw, stood up. Then, while looking at me and with deliberate slowness, began to walk across my path.

In a flash, I threw the rock in front of its nose. The feline puffed up like a bottlebrush flower, hissed, and bolted in the opposite direction. Fran glared at me in disapproval.

I looked back at her with a carefully neutral expression. "I've had enough bad luck this week. I don't want to tempt the fair Lady."

"Lady Luck doesn't exist." Fran groused, holding some of the food that we had picked up.

I began mentally ticking off fingers, "Tell that to my torn jacket, my ruined carving project, the concussion, broken arm, broken leg, and broken _back;_ the ruined textbook, writing slate and stylus, the shattered _blown glass bottle_ from trader Nichol, my irreparable pair of boots, the broken cart, and that Garrison soldier's 3DMG." I snapped, waving my previously broken arm in the air for emphasis.

"Hey, at least you healed up after the horse threw you onto that pile of farming equipment." She replied, ever optimistic. She cracked her neck and continued thoughtfully, "And the 3DMG was just lying out there in the open. How would you know that the cart would run over it?"

I blinked. "…That's not the point. But now that you mention it, I had no idea that a supposedly sturdily-built cart even could fall apart if it hit something that size, did you?"

Fran shook her head. "Nah, not really." A beat of silence. "Hey, isn't that Jack?" She pointed down the street. I shaded my eyes and squinted through the afternoon glare. Sure enough, there was a tall man in his mid-twenties scowling in our direction and heading straight toward us.

"Yeah. He looks a bit pissed."

"M-hm. Hey, doesn't Jack have a black cat?" Fran mused. I snapped my eyes toward her.

"…Yeah…?"

"A black cat with green eyes and a chunk missing out of its left ear?" She continued, ignoring my growing discomfort.

I felt my stomach sink.

"And didn't you just throw a rock at a black cat with green eyes and-?"

"Shut up and run." I cut her off.

I absently noted that Jack's face was coloring a rather vivid shade of mauve as he came closer. "WHAT THE HELL WERE YA DOIN' TO MY CAT, YA DELINQUENT LITTLE SHITS?!"

We bolted for the nearest alleyway, our grocer's bags banging against the frames we were using as backpacks.

* * *

Doctor Yeager didn't show up that fall, but a tall, thin man did come by and handed my parents 'compensation' without speaking more than the bare minimum for politeness.

I stayed out on the porch and whittled through dinner. I wasn't hungry, anyways.

No matter how I dressed it up, no matter how much I owed my parents for living here with them, it still felt like a betrayal on a fundamental level.

Yes, I was still judging them by my old ideas about human rights.

I began to carve a wooden shield with the Recon Corps emblem on it that night.

_What I wouldn't give,_ I mused internally, _for organization without corruption._

Fran once had complained that I hated the Survey Corps. That wasn't entirely true, but I could understand how she came to that conclusion. I never did have anything _good_ to say about them, but then again I didn't really talk about the military much at all.

I sold the carving to one of the traders later that month. He had a son who joined the Garrison a few months back. He gave me enough money that I could have bought two piglets if I wanted to. It was one of my better pieces, but I was surprised to have received that much.

The money was summarily stashed behind a loose board in my room with the rest of my savings.

I had been collecting money for the past half year. My carvings normally were rustic, chipped baubles, but I really wanted to carve complex models of animals with details so fine the eyes would seem to follow the observer. I also sculpted rough approximations of vehicles and buildings from my past life. Those were the _fun_ ones to make, but I could only sell them to the traders with a reputation for 'queer articles.'

They _loved_ them.

Perhaps I could start a business building dollhouses. Maybe I'd even make a Seattle Skyscraper edition.

I wondered what the inner towns looked like. Probably like some mid to late Victorian city – most of the people here were white, now that I thought about it. I put the thought aside and set down my carving tools, gazing at the emblem I had scored onto the trunk.

Asking around yielded various results, but I noticed that the buyers in the city were interested in original pieces supporting our military, decorative animals, utensils, or pieces depicting the Wall emblems.

A memory of a Wall Cult acolyte screaming his agenda at the crowd flitted its way past my mind's eye and I scowled.

Plot advancement scapegoats the lot of them, and a bad name to any organized religion besides. A saying used during the second World War at home echoed through my head: "Loose lips sink ships."

Good mood gone, I roughly gathered my supplies and returned to the house.

* * *

The sun beat down on our heads as we worked steadily in our herb garden.

It was spring. I had turned seven two months ago. We had gotten a recent rain shower, and the plants in our garden had matured enough that we could tell the difference between weed sprigs and the good plants. We took liberty of the advantage to pull out the weeds, and our efforts had begun to pile up beside us.

"Dad?" I called over a couple of large bushes of anise, tugging a small malva sprig loose.

He grunted as he stood up, turning around to face me. "What is it?"

"What was it like before the Walls?" I asked.

Dad was silent for a moment and then said, "No one really remembers, dear. Even I'm not entirely sure."

"Oh." I replied, disappointed. Apparently even _that_ had been forgotten. Father shuffled around on his hands and knees between the plants, plucking weeds with deft, calloused fingers.

"There are tales," he began, "of undrinkable lakes so wide you could never see across them and of mountains of salt piled on their shores. There are dead lands as far as the eye can see, where the sun scorches the earth, and the moon freezes it. There are lands with mild winters, where it never snows."

He sighed then, deep and heavy with longing. He turned towards me. "But our land's fertile, it's spacious, and it supports us. I'm satisfied to be here." He finished with a smile at me before turning back to his work.

"I was curious about the outside, before." I knelt again, listening to my father speak as I worked. "I always wanted to join the Recon Corps, but my father prevented me from going. Said it was too dangerous," he laughed, and threw a weed onto the pile behind him. "He was a miner you know, so the irony wasn't lost on me. They didn't have nearly as many safety regulations then as now."

I hummed in response. I was stopped at a particularly stubborn weed. My scrabbling had made my handhold at the base of the growth slick with plant juices, so I scraped some of the soil away and tugged with all of my weight.

"So I ran away from home and walked to Trost," he continued, brushing soil off on his pants as I futilely tugged at the weed, "And the fool I was, I didn't pay attention to the weather patterns. It seemed clear that day, but I walked for five hours, barely hit the path leading to the city. Boom! The heaviest rain you could think of starts falling. Your poor old father never stood a chance."

I shook my head and snorted in amusement at the mental image, finally pulling the weed out of the ground and throwing it onto the pile to be burned. "Well, you obviously didn't die. Who dragged you out of the rain?"I asked.

"Well, since I looked like a poor drowned puppy a small family of merchants who were driving by volunteered their cart since we were heading the same way," he chuckled.

_Drowned puppy?_ I mentally scoffed. "Meh, you probably looked like a soaked rat!"

My dad mock-scowled and flung a small clod of dirt at me. I flinched backward with an evil snicker. "Ungrateful brat," he groused, giving me the stink eye. "See if I tell you what happened next."

I rolled my eyes and turned back to my work. Dad sighed and shook his head."I think you'd be interested in this," he teased me.

"Really? What oh-so-amazing thing would have happened?" I grumbled as I tidied up my pile, "A puma comes and runs you all over? The horse gets spooked by a stray breeze and runs away? Bandits come from nowhere and attack you in the middle of one of the _widest stretches of fields within the Walls_? You finally get those scars you're so proud about?"

He shook his head 'no' with a small smile and I sighed.

"Then what happened?" I whined, impatient.

"We were attacked, yes, but by something no one expected."

"Then what was it?"

"Oh, just a _titan,"_ He sniffed dismissively.

* * *

End

Hah. Boom.

Did you know...?

Yes, according to Quilted Northern the process for making toilet paper did not remove all of the splinters from the roll until the 1930's. Ouch!

Reviews make me happy. I adore comments and criticism!

Questions? Comments? Concerns? Am I taking this too quickly? Are the chapters too short/long/ponderous? Is there anything that might need explaining? Please leave me a review!


	4. Chapter 4

A new week, a new chapter. I want to start writing some action scenes soon, but the setting I have right now won't allow for much realistic physical conflict.

I'm _beyond_ honored at the response all of you have given this story! I'm really enjoying writing this, and I hope that everyone here continues to be entertained by my contribution. I'll do my best to update weekly from now on, as time and creativity permits.

This chapter has been betaed by the wonderful White Ink Penpal!

* * *

The weeds in my hand slid through my limp fingers. "You're lying."

He grinned and raised his hand, "Honest to Maria truth," he swore with a smirk.

My mouth snapped shut. "H-how did you survive?"

"We almost didn't." He shrugged. "The horse saved us; we were barely able to outrun it. But you know the strangest thing?"I shook my head and motioned for him to continue. "The Titan just… disappeared."

Crap. Crap, crap, crap, this wasn't supposed to happen until after the walls had been breached. "What did it look like?"

Father hummed. "Well, it was small and fat, probably a four-meter class. It looked like a deformed baby."

That was not good. "How did it get in?"

Dad shrugged. "I have no idea. We tried to warn the guards of Trost, but they wouldn't believe us. They said we were drunk," he groused, irritated at the hypocrisy. He then sighed, suddenly weary. "They never found the Titan, but we knew what we saw. There was this… huge lightning strike within two hundred meters of us, and then the Titan was just there."

I stared at my father, wide-eyed. There were even more titan shifters?

Father chuckled. "Ah, don't look so scared. No one's ever seen it since."

I blinked, and relaxed my face with a scoff. "I've got to admit, that sounds pretty stupid," I deadpanned offhandedly, giving a token snort as I turned back to my work. I called over my shoulder, "If you're going to lie, at least try to make it sound entertaining. You know, like the bear one."

"Hey, that one is definitely true! Your mother even saw it happen!" Dad protested.

"Yeah," I agreed, "It was a potato sack on the upper floor of the barn." I conjectured, "It just so happened to be shaped like a bear and a rake was leaning against it. You shut the door too hard one day and..." I whistled a descending tone, holding my thumb out and imitating a falling missile. "Thwack! You get a pair of pretty parallel gouges and a story to tell."

"…I'm injured that you would say such horrible accusations to my beautiful face." His pout grew in size and he sighed dramatically. "Where did I ever go wrong in raising you?"

I snickered. "Probably right at the beginning when you got mother pregnant."

Father choked and whirled around to face me, "Who told you things like that?!"

I blinked slowly, innocently, "You mean that's not what happened? That's what all the kids at school say…"

I was treated to the rare sight of my father caught flat–footed. I let him flail for a moment, but in the end I couldn't help it. I snickered, and watched as dawning realization crept on his face.

"You brat," he scowled, "Playing me like a fiddle."

"You know me, dad," I began, gathering up the pile of weeds I had plucked. "Always a little horror 'till the end."

"Isn't that the truth," he snarked, and gathered the weeds into his arms to be burned. "But I want to know who told you these things, young lady."

I grimaced and muttered, "Uh-oh."

Father grinned in triumph.

* * *

We were doing math today. Multiplication and long division, to be exact. We were adding up all of the values by hand, and memorizing the answers.

When I heard about the busywork I was about to be subjected to I slammed my head against the desk. Hard. Fran looked at me in concern. "…Lisa? You alright?"

I gave a long groan from my seat. "…No. And I won't be, if I have to keep doing these stupid, idiotic, moronic exercises I've _mastered years ago_!" At the end my voice had risen to a hoarse yell, and the class turned dead silent.

As one, many of the students turned to look at me as I blearily peered out from behind my bangs.

"…Damn it." I swore under my breath.

Not quietly enough, sadly. The teacher scowled at me, "Language, Lisa. Since you seem to have mastered this material, why don't you come up here and teach the class?"

I blinked and then a small smirk stretched across my face.

That day would become one of the fondest memories I would have of that little town. Because of my implementation of 'multiplication tables,' most of the children there understood the fundamental concepts of multiplication and division within three days. The teacher, of course, took all the credit, but I didn't care. We moved onto studying our sparse history after that.

* * *

Mother and I worked tirelessly on the bread we were making for market day tomorrow. Her straight black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and her green eyes and aristocratic features hovered regally over the dough she was kneading. Wheat flour filled the air, highlighting the sunbeams that streamed in from the windows. We worked in companionable silence, listening to the birds twitter in the trees outside.

I sighed, brushing some of my hair that had escaped from my ponytail behind my ear. I reached for more flour to add to the bowl, then turned towards my mother with a frown. "I've always been meaning to ask, why did you have Doctor Yeager give me the shot?"

Mother kneaded the dough in front of her for a few minutes before turning towards me with an unreadable expression. "I thought we've been over this already."

"We did," I agreed, "but I want to know why, not because of the utility. There's never been a permanent cure for so many diseases before and at the same time. It sounds like a scam. So why his?"

Mother turned back to her work, slapping the dough against the counter. "Doctor Yeager is well-known, and his work is used as the basis for research in the capital. I knew we could trust him."

"We don't have that many doctors out here," I mused aloud, "or talk to any professed medical specialists besides Yeager."

She sighed, suddenly tired. "You're a very perceptive child, but you keep assuming you know everything," she admonished me. "I've been living for much longer than you; I've heard about more things than you'd really know about. I've never told you where I was from, have I?"

I blinked in surprise at the change in topic. "Trost, right?"

"Yes, but that wasn't always the case." She brushed excess dough off of the counter and tossed it into the compost bucket. "Have you heard of the Hermiha district?"

I frowned, "Yeah… What about it?"

"I was born there."

I blinked. Then I realized that the dough in my hands was starting to stretch, so I turned, placing it back on the counter and added some flour to it. "Really?"

Mother smiled as she continued to knead her dough. "Yes, I was raised an 'inner city snob,' as your little friend so loves to put it."

I grimaced, embarrassed, looking over my shoulder at mother. "Fran didn't insult you, did she?"

Mother shook her head. "No, but you could tell her to be more careful with how vocal she is about her opinions."

I nodded and turned back to the bread.

"I let him give you that treatment because I feared for your health," she began, sprinkling more flour onto the counter. "I didn't want you to have to suffer those diseases that are so rampant out here." She finished up the loaf, setting it inside of a pan to rise. "I had heard of his work, and even the naysayers had to acknowledge his utter brilliance in his field."

"High praise," I mused aloud, tossing the dough into the air a few times to loosen up the knots in my shoulders.

Mother lifted some more dough and began kneading it over the flour dusted counter. "Indeed. He is one of the few that have the capability to serve the king in his court, but the selflessness to serve the people instead."

I fell silent, digesting this information. "Who was your father, then?" I asked, after a few moments.

She shook her head and smiled, "No one special, just another minor noble trained in the ways of commerce and banking. But Grandfather, however..." she trailed off with a faraway look in her eyes. "He was a great man and the only one worth mentioning, though he wasn't necessarily a loved leader. He is no more than a memory in the minds of the people there, but its best not to bring him up in polite company."

I lifted my bread and placed it into a pan, covering it with a towel and leaving it near the oven to rise. "Oh. So, you don't want to talk about him?"

Mother shrugged and shook her head no. "Not necessarily. It's good for the children to learn from the folly of their ancestors. You'll make fewer messes that way."

I nodded in complete agreement as I gathered more dough to work on. "So, what happened?"

"He was a particularly intelligent man, who could find or invent flaws in any argument if he put his mind to it." She stopped working the dough for a moment and tapped the counter twice, deep in thought. "He was a very affluent politician, with a particular weakness for power."

"Power? What kind?" I asked, sprinkling more flour over my workspace.

"Any kind," she clarified. "But political power, mostly. He was addicted to being in charge, even to the point of developing fraudulent charges against his competitors to discredit them."

I pursed my lips and slapped the dough a few times, trying to shape it. "Oh. Who finally stopped him?"

"No one. He had too much influence. Frankly, if someone killed him, the whole financial infrastructure for two cities would have fallen," she stated, working steadily on the dough.

I chocked in surprise, "Two?" I asked incredulously. That was practically equal to the power of a prince!

"And a half more besides. He had investments in the Yalkell District."

Amazing. I shook my head and tossed the dough I was working on into another pan. "So, why?"

"He retired, split his investments twelve ways, and gave the reigns to someone else. He said it was time to leave after twenty-seven years of service to Wall Sina." She shook her head and inspected the dough she was working on, adding some more water to the mixture. "You'd think a move like that would have crippled the economy, but he knew money and people well enough to ensure that nothing went wrong. We all disappeared within a few years."

"Who did?" I asked as mother stopped working on her dough and turned towards the pile of pans she had left on the counter beside her.

"My relatives," she continued, selecting and lifting a couple of pans out of the pile. "Our family might not have been rich, but we were still targets. Some factions wanted us gone or wanted petty revenge on Grandfather for his policies. Grandfather may have been untouchable – he was still popular with the cities even after he retired – but the rest of his family, not so much."

"Huh. Why?" I asked, tossing my thoroughly worked–over dough into a pan.

Mother turned back to the mixing bowl, replying, "Quite a number of them took advantage of father's position and power to a great extent, especially the protection being under his name provided. They were… bitter. Nowadays, to be called a Nagy - his last name - in one of the inner cities is comparable to being called a wasteful pig."

I frowned and stepped over to her workstation, filching the last of the dough from her bowl before replying. "So you moved to Trost."

Mother nodded as she pulled more dry ingredients together and mixed them. "It wasn't so much as a decision on my part than it was on your grandmother's. I wanted to stay in the inner cities, but there were more than enough people left that still wanted us dead that it'd have been more trouble than it was worth."

"That's too bad. So you lived there for a while?"

"Yes, it was there I met your father." She said as she added the liquid ingredients and rapidly whisked the mixture into a thick paste.

My eyebrows rose, remembering father's tale from the day before. "How?"

"Well, it was during one of those summer storms, a bad one. Lightning everywhere. He came in with some traders. They were running from something, but that's his story to tell." She shook her head in amusement, and tossed the dough lump in her hand a few times experimentally. "To be honest, when I first saw him I wasn't impressed; all gangly limbs and large jaw. He said he wanted to join the military."

"He told me about it."

"Ah, I can hardly believe it myself, you know. A Titan? In the fields?" She chuckled and turned back to her work.

I hummed in agreement, but inwardly frowned at the reminder. There were Titans inside of the walls, weren't there? The rhythm of kneading the dough had filled my arms with a slow burn, and I stopped to rub my wrists.

Mother continued, "Anyways, for some reason he was turned away by the recruiting office. He never said why, but I understand it was one of those years. Command had been recently changed around, and though they still had regulations the officers there were trying to see how far they could push the new head. It didn't last long – he had the offenders publicly humiliated, stripped of their rank, and sent back to the training squads."

I snickered, imagining a similar look on some of the local garrison officers.

"Your father had had enough of getting the runaround by then. He had tried to get in for a year, only to be turned away each time." She scoffed, her eyes narrowed and spiteful. "Lot of fools they were. He said he wanted to join the Survey Corps – he had the physical and mental constitution for it, too. They needed men like him."

My eyebrows rose in surprise. "Really?"

"Yes, but I'm glad he didn't go. We began seriously considering a relationship about a half year after he gave up trying to get into the military. He'd begun a thriving carpentry business and was earning enough to potentially buy a new property within the district in five years or so. He has a way with money, and my parents were all too aware of that fact."

I frowned, "Ah. Were they money-conscious type?"

"They were bankers by trade, though by that time they were more like loan brokers. A risky business, but a profitable one nonetheless. They saw stability in his preferred trade, and weren't opposed to me becoming associated with him."

The fire had been lit for some time. Mother grabbed a tray of the bread pans we had prepared and placed it on a table in the warmed air to rise. I hurried and followed suit.

"Then what?" I prompted, carefully setting the last tray down and wiping sweat from my forehead.

Mother took a deep breath and stretched her arms out in front of her, "Well, our relationship progressed at a slow pace," she began, dropping her arms and moving back to the counter to begin cleaning. "Three years later, and we still hadn't decided it was best for us to marry. And then the population began to drop from the plagues in the outer districts, and marriage began to be encouraged by the government. "

We both moved back to the counter and began cleaning the surface. I looked over at Mother in confusion. "They can do that?"

Mother shrugged. "Well, you know how father says the best way to get through to a man is through his stomach? Another way is through his wallet. Tax breaks were offered to newlyweds, and the property values near the outer walls had plummeted. We could have bought two of these properties with the money he had saved up, and still had enough left over to purchase several houses."

"And you two left, just like that?"

"Not really. During the plagues the gates were shut to refugees, and the land in the inner districts steadily became more expensive as fear spread."

I stopped picking up the utensils and used bowls. "They stopped trade and travel?" I asked, shocked.

"For at least a season," Mother confirmed, "Only doctors and the soldiers guarding them were allowed to travel between districts. There was little progress made on this plague until Doctor Yeager was able to isolate and create a resistance to the disease with his vaccines."

I frowned at the mention of the doctor's name, but a sense of reluctant understanding had begun to form in my gut. "So that's why…"

"I wasn't more hesitant to accept his offer. We were extremely fortunate that he chose our family."

We fell into silence, clack of dishes being gathered and placed into the wash basin filling the house. I looked out the window, then turned my attention back inside. "What made you both decide to move out here?"

"We eventually left of our own volition. We married, your father closed up his carpentry shop, and we bought this place."

"…But that makes no sense. He was a carpenter, not a farmer."

Mother shrugged with a sigh. "Farming turned out to be more profitable, and he knew how to farm. There's always a need for grains and produce, and it's a very valuable trade for humanity."

I kept washing the dishes. The wind blew through the thick grasses with a thin hissing sound, bringing some relief to the livestock lounging in the shade. I sighed and wiped sweat off of my forehead with the edge of my shirt.

Mother sighed. "I'm sorry that the treatment makes you suffer so much."

I shrugged and kept working. "What's done is done, and after all." I sighed. "I've never gotten sick yet, have I?"

Mother shook her head, picking up the rest of the measuring tools that I had left out and placed them in her cupboards. "No. No you haven't."

* * *

We had two horses.

I remember seeing them for the first time, when I was three years old and barely able to keep up with father and mother around the house. We were in the barn, on a cool spring morning. The mists had covered the sky and mountains around us, muffling the birdsong and chatter from our animals.

_Belgian Drafts,_ father claimed proudly as he brushed through their short coats. _Raised by my family from generation to generation, or as far back as we could trace it. Beautiful creatures, aren't they?_

I meekly peered out from behind father's legs and stared up, up, up into the horse's enormous eyes and Roman nose.

I had been a city girl before I died. The only time I had ever run into one of these animals was when I was in the country. Needless to say, I was a little bit intimidated_._

_Go ahead,_ he urged me quietly. _Pet his nose._

I timidly did as I was told, and the horse whuffled and delicately lipped my hand, looking for some treats. I pulled my hand back and jumped behind father with a squeak as he laughed.

* * *

The next day had dawned bright and early. I hurried from the house, black hair floppily drawn back into a long ponytail. In my hand was a feed bucket, with two long carrots on top of some oats.

I ran towards the barn, skidding inside with a huff. I trotted towards the wall, setting down my bucket and pulling a saddle and a blanket off of the pegs on the wall.

Whistling sharply as I left the barn, I hauled the heavy blanket and saddle between my arms and made my way toward the fence. Both Damien and William perked up their heads and trotted over to me, eagerly sniffing me for a carrot. I held out one juicy treat to each of them, and then set to saddling William up for father as they both munched on their food.

Father was going hunting today.

I had begged to follow along, to help collect the animals from the snares and traps, but one of our chairs had broken and father needed me to stay behind and fix it while mother worked on the fruit trees.

Damien nickered at me softly as I stood up from where I was drawing the cinch on the saddle. I gave him an affectionate pat on his forehead before hooking up William's reins to his bridle. Finishing the job, I clicked my tongue and led William towards the gate.

Damien lazily watched me go, turning back to the strenuous activity of grazing on the ground.

The lazy bum.

Once we cleared the gate, I swung myself up William's massive girth and rode him in a circle to warm him up. I always loved this part. The wind blew against my face, giving a welcome respite from the early morning heat.

Today was going to be muggy and hot. Despite the disappointment of not being able to go with my father, I was somewhat relieved that I would be able to stay near the house and not have to trudge through this heat.

William's breathing deepened, and I carefully led him towards the house.

Father was sitting on the porch with his overnight travel pack, and I frowned. Was he going to check all of the traps, and not just the most-travelled ones? I dismounted and handed William's reins to father.

He smiled benevolently down at me and gave me an affectionate squeeze on the shoulder. "Can I give Damien a ride around the property?"

"I don't see why not, as long as you come back before ten o'clock."

I checked the sky. It was around nine-thirtyish. I bolted back towards the stables, tossing a halfhearted goodbye over my shoulder as I ran into the barn.

* * *

Silence reigned after the school door had been forced open.

I raised my hands in surrender, making as innocent a face as I could manage.

"I had nothing to do with this, I swear."

We were in the village once again, just outside of the schoolhouse. The head teacher loomed over my tiny seven-year-old frame, and mother 'tsked' disapprovingly.

"Really…" Mother drawled, rolling her fingers on her crossed arms. "Just like you had nothing to do with leaving the butter out on the counter at home? Or the time when the cows escaped into the town? Or when our cart was ruined?"

"Hey, the cart wasn't my fault!" I protested. "It was a complete accident!"

Mother rolled her eyes. "I'm sure. Besides," she continued, turning towards Fran, "I know you both are far, _far_ too _innocent_ to even think of wrapping all of the furniture in the classrooms with butcher paper."

Without missing a beat Fran replied, "I have no idea how that might've happened."

"Uh-huh" Mother turned toward me to ask, "And stringing the doors together with rope?"

"Must have been those delinquents. We've been having issues with some gangs recently…" I mused, keeping my face as straight as possible. As if to punctuate my statement, a group of well behaved children quietly walked back to their homes from the local library. I recognized a few as the daughters of a local merchant.

"I see." The schoolmaster said.

A beat.

I sighed in defeat, and mother and the schoolmaster gained varying expressions of triumph.

"…Fiiiiiine, I'll clean it up. C'mon, Fran…"

"Mmkay!" She cheered, bolting into the house. Paper tore, and rope and shredded scraps alike flew through the open door. "Wha-HOOOOOOO! _PRESENTS!"_

I laughed nervously at the incredulous look the teacher was giving to me and bolted into the room.

* * *

It was too good to last.

* * *

It all started with a cough.

Father collapsed in the fields in the last weeks of summer. He hadn't been breathing easily for the past month. When we tried to help him come back to the house, he tried to talk but began wheezing so badly that I pushed mother to away so she wouldn't catch what father had, leaving father to his coughing fit on the ground.

It was a stressful time for all of us; the harvest was about to begin, and though I was old enough to begin assisting in a more useful capacity, I wasn't old enough to make much of a difference. Father remained in bed for the better part of the day, barely mustering enough strength to lever himself out of bed to either reach for a nearby cup of water, or to relieve himself.

I cried myself to sleep for the first time in three and a half years.

A few weeks later when Doctor Yeager arrived, mother begged him to take a look at father before he did anything else. He agreed and immediately set to work. I and mother left the room, giving father some privacy.

Sometime later he came out of the room and shook his head, taking mother outside to discuss the situation in hushed whispers. I went back into father's room and sat next to the bed.

* * *

Irma, face drawn tightly, sat stiffly on the wooden bench on the porch.

"Doctor..." She began, but trailed off.

Grisha drew his hand across his face and sighed. "I'm afraid it doesn't look good."

Her face fell, and she motioned for him to continue.

"From what I could see, he has a dropsy of the chest."

Irma clasped her hands on her lap, looking over the fields and avoiding Grisha's eyes. "One that spreads?"

"...Yes. I understand your daughter was exposed to him repeatedly?"

Irma blinked, and an unreadable expression stole across her face. "She physically stopped me from caring for him."

"Interesting."

Irma breathed deeply, then released a shuddering sigh. Her long fingers clasped on her lap trembled slightly, but she exhaled and forced them still.

Irma blinked, and her face smoothed into blankness as she turned to face doctor Yeager. "Is there anything we can do here for him?"

Grisha shook his head gently, spectacles flashing in the dying light. "I don't think so; his is a particularly bad case. Does his family have any history of lung diseases?"

Irma pursed her lips and replied, "His grandfather and his mother."

"Is the mother still alive?"

"No, both are dead from the consumption."

Grisha walked to the edge of the porch and looked out over the fields, brows furrowed in contemplation. He straightened and turned, facing Irma fully with a sympathetic expression.

"I'm afraid it doesn't look good for your husband."

"Is there _any_ treatment?" Irma replied, a nearly hidden note of desperation entering her voice and expression.

"There is one, but I'm afraid it's prohibitively expensive to make."

Hope bloomed across her face, "I would be willing to pay - "

"Eight gold and seventy silver?" Grisha cut her off with a frown, "For _half_ of a treatment?"

Irma's mouth and expression closed.

He continued, "That's what just the reagents would cost. For your family, I wouldn't even _consider_ factoring in the mark up from the traders and my usual fee."

Irma's face fell and she drew her hands into her chest. "I-" She cut herself off as the hopelessness of the situation sunk in.

"I'm sorry, Irma."

Irma covered her face with her hands, her shoulders dropping in defeat.

* * *

Father was pale, sweating and shivering.

I brought his water glass closer to his hand, and he nearly drained it with long, slow gulps. With a hacking cough to clear his throat, he looked blearily up at me with a shaky smile. "Heh, guess I never really understood how old grampaps felt like with his inflammation."

I shook my head and fought back tears.

"Ah well, we'll make it through this, see?" He continued quietly, "After winter the weather can only get better."

I choked out a laugh, "Shouldn't I be cheering _you_ up? Make sure you rest, and get better, hmm? Mom and I can take care of the farm without you for a little bit…" I trailed off.

Father just smiled and closed his eyes. "You'll both do fine without me for now, I'm sure. I love you, you know."

I nodded, throat stiff.

Father cleared his throat and rested his head on his pillow with a deep sigh. "I need to rest a little – go and help your mother with dinner, okay? We still need to feed the doctor."

I tried to grin, but it came out as a grimace. Shaking my head in acknowledgement I left the room, not trusting myself to speak. I swallowed back my tears and opened the door to the porch. Mother and Yeager were both sitting quietly on the bench silently.

Mother stood and walked towards me as I left the house, extending her arms in an invitation to hug. I gave her a quick, desperate squeeze and turned to face the doctor fully. "Is there _any_ way you can help him?" I pleaded, hating how my voice came out as a whimper.

He slowly shook his head no.

My hope fell, and something _snapped._ I was _angry._ My face twisted into a snarl, "You can turn me into some hot-blooded freak, but you can't give _him_ a simple antibiotic? What the hell is _wrong_ with you?"

Yeager blinked in surprise at my complete one-eighty, "What do you mean?"

I bared my teeth in a sardonic, hopeless smile, "You don't _know?"_ I asked, my voice dropping into a mocking sing-song. _How could he not? He designed the treatment he gave me, for Pete's sake-!_ "I thought you realized the medicine you gave me did this – !"

I had left my carving knife on the ground last night, too tired to pick up after myself. I snatched the whittling tool off of the floor and ripped my palm open. Mother hissed and rushed forward with her apron to try to stop the bleeding, but I held my hand away from her.

Doctor Yeager watched impassively as the wound poured steam and sealed itself within seconds. He met my eyes, all traces of sympathy gone and replaced by something entirely _focused._ "How long has this been happening?"

"Ever since you gave me whatever junk was in that syringe, you _imbecile!_ Weren't you _listening?"_ I growled, fists trembling in anger.

Doctor Yeager whirled on my mother, who recoiled from his sudden movement in shock. "I asked you to tell me if anything like this happened!"

Mother regained her composure and shook her head, "She never let herself get cut… This is the first time I've ever seen anything like this."

She looked at me and I scowled back up at her, "But, come to think of it, you never really bruised, either."

I roughly shook my head, "This isn't the _point!_ We've seen what you can do with your syringes and chemicals!" I shouted, waving my newly-healed hand for emphasis, "Don't you have access to some kind of medicine that could help dad?"

"I think that your concerns are _moot,_ girl." Yeager spat, turning back and looming over me. If my back wasn't straight before, I stiffened until it could be compared to a rod of iron.

I _refused_ to back down to this man.

Yeager shook his head, "You have no idea how valuable the investment I've placed in you is to humanity. Now that I know that this formula works… The _things _I could do with this research! The potential that it opens! If I had known about this sooner, I could have helped the _last person I visited_!"

My stomach twisted. "I had _no say_ in this! I was used like a _test animal_, without my _permission,_ I might add – I remember that day just as clearly as you both do!" I shrieked.

Without warning, a hand flew across through air and slapped me across the face.

I flinched, and stared at my mother in shock. "You…" I couldn't talk. I closed my mouth.

"You selfish, selfish child," she quietly said. "I thought I knew you better than this, Lisa._"_

Something ugly twisted in my gut, freed by the hope that had been snapped, crushed, _destroyed_ earlier.

"Perhaps, then," I spat, voice light and deliberate, with as much venom as I could muster, "I could sacrifice just as much, if not _more_ than _you seem to think I would_,"

I didn't stop, even as mother started to speak. "You have no right – and"

"– if I would get –"

"You will stop this foolishness –"

"Some answers – !"

"Both of you be QUIET!" Doctor Yeager snapped over our bickering. We both stopped turned to look at him.

"I," he began, "Will do everything in my power to make sure that your husband will survive this disease no matter what," he spoke to my mother. "In exchange," he held up a hand to forestall my protests as he turned back to me, "I ask to give the girl the secondary and third treatment in order to confirm their effectiveness."

"What? How could you even – ?" I began, but mother cut me off.

"Will they kill her, or permanently injure her?" She asked quietly.

He looked at mother levelly in the eyes, "Seeing that she took to the first serum I gave to her so well, in theory she will survive. The possibility of physical deformation would be, at worst, minimal to the point of becoming nonexistent despite the amount of time between treatments."

"And this knowledge is, to the best of your considerable ability, accurate to the point that you would be willing to stake your own life on it if your positions were reversed?" She asked tonelessly.

Without hesitation, he responded, "Yes."

Mother said nothing for a few moments, looking at me, then back to Yeager.

"…Then I accept."

The words were a sucker punch to my gut.

Then the doctor turned toward me and asked, "Are you willing to offer your body and mind for the sake and continued survival of humanity?"

I stared at him dully, my mind trying to parse what he just said.

"You wanted answers, but first I must ask you this. _Are you willing?_"

"…"

Why was he even giving me the illusion of a choice in the first place with father's health on the line? But I caught myself thinking of the answer to his question all the same.

I thought of the village.

I thought of how they lived, not caring of how or what happened outside of the walls so long as they weren't in danger.

I thought of the Garrison, and what I had seen of their behavior in Shigansina. Of the Military Police, when they deigned to come out here and collect the taxes.

I thought of the human traffickers, the drug peddlers, of the corruption, and of the losses suffered on pointless missions outside of the walls.

Of our coward king and his coward court.

Of this man, who was so brilliant yet so unethical, that it physically pained me to see the earnestness and hope and sheer _focus_ in his eyes.

Then I thought of those few people who didn't mind me and all of my strangeness, the traders who showed me examples of carvings and offered tips for improvement, the schoolmaster, Mr. Kreef, who always meted judgment out fairly to those under his care.

Of Fran, and her perpetually cheerful attitude.

Of my mother, who gave me the gift of language and reading, who taught me upper-class etiquette and middle-class etiquette, who accepted Doctor Yeager's offer to save the life of her husband without hesitation without consulting me.

Of my father, who taught me how to live and to carve, who taught me how to survive outside of the city, who looked on with approval as I was turned into a test subject.

And I realized, not quite for the first time, that despite whatever betrayal I may have experienced, that I _loved_ these people. And that no matter what I thought of them, there was only one 'right' answer.

So now I was presented with the choice of whether I was more afraid for my own health than I was for my father's.

If Yeager could be trusted, then there was a possibility that I could survive this mess.

If I let things stand as they were, then father would most definitely die. People never _really_ recovered after the consumption was in them. It was a fact of life out here. But with the services of a doctor as brilliant as Yeager…

Would I be willing to risk my life for my father's?

I took a deep breath and turned towards Yeager fully.

"…Yes. Yes I am."

"Excellent."

* * *

Uh-oh.

Before you all decide to march on Irma for her decision, I feel the need to give you all some background history.

Edward Jenner in 1796 _deliberately_ infected his patients with cowpox virus. After waiting for the infection to run its course, he exposed those same people to _smallpox_ (something that would _never_ be allowed to happen today in a first-world country without cutting through a veritable mountain of red tape) to test a _theory__._ My point is that it was the norm back then to do human experimentation.

Anton and Irma were offered money in addition to a treatment for their daughter that held a high possibility of permanently preserving her health. Since they live in a village without 'modern' medical access, of _course_ they would jump at the chance. To them, they're giving their daughter a miracle treatment from a known medical genius. Grisha stopped a **plague** after all.

Now, I don't support Irma and Anton's behavior. I'm simply trying to explain their perspective.

If you liked what I have written then I would really _really_ appreciate if you would take the time to review._  
_


	5. Chapter 5

Muee-hee-hee! Welcome back!

This chapter has been betaed by the impeccable White Ink Penpal.

* * *

It was painful for father whenever he was awake now. Coughs racked his frame to the point where he would only be able to get back to sleep after hours passed.

Mom couldn't be in the room when that happened. Pneumonia, if it was what I thought it was, spread through airborne droplets contaminated with the disease. I always made sure that she left the front door outside open so I could clean myself without touching the doorknobs.

Doctor Yeager had sensibly recommended that we isolate him to prevent anyone else from catching what he had, and that only I was allowed to spend time within his room. He also requested one more blood sample before he left, and promised to return within two weeks. In the meantime, Yeager prescribed water and rest. Discreetly, he handed mother a small glass bottle of white pills and told her to use them sparingly if father needed some pain relief.

Mother had taken her bedding that evening and washed it so thoroughly I was surprised there were any fibers left. She always worked when upset – it was wise to stay out of the warpath and keep things clean whenever that happened.

On a smaller note, I was faced with the daunting prospect of losing my memories.

They had begun fading, I noticed. Little things, like the placement of cheekbones and height. The colors of the vehicles we drove. The names of all the other fiction works I read.

Having completed all of my work for the day and having nothing else to do, I began writing down everything that I could remember. In English. No one else spoke the language so they should be safe, even if I forgot everything.

One week later, and I still hadn't even come close to finished. After skimming through them I realized that I hadn't been prioritizing, instead writing whatever came to mind.

I dropped my improvised pen in its inkwell, lifted my shaking hands, and covered my face with a sigh.

I was _beyond_ scared about this.

And I couldn't bring up my fears to anyone without letting them know my situation. Mother and Father were out – the situation was stressful for all of us and I would only look crazy if I up and claimed to be reincarnated. The only possible person I could talk to was Fran, but mom had already proven that she didn't have the necessary brain-to-mouth filter.

I inhaled, picked up my inked pen, and continued to write.

I just recapped the important stuff I had fought to remember when I was three – the overall plot, the major antagonists, dates, names, their stories if they had any. Digging out my first notes from when I was first 'learning to draw,' I refreshed my memory as well as I could.

I wrote of my family and grieved as I felt the loss of them all over again.

I wrote of home. Of the nation I lived in, and of the way of life we once had. Of how there were _rights_ and _freedoms_ that we didn't have here in this caged monarchy.

I wrote of my education, and the of the plot - the future - I needed to remember. _That_ was important enough to write in Commons, even though it held the risk of being found out.

Then I gathered up my archived memories and found a small wooden box.

Our property extended to enclose part of a small forest and a couple of hills. There were at least nineteen places outside where I could hide a container of this size and not have to worry about it being found out.

Instead, I did the sensible thing and hid it under my bed.

It may sound stupid, but there were two reasons why I did this. My bed was a kind of futon; a straw mattress covered with a cotton sheet to prevent it from making a mess everywhere. I had sliced into the bed sheet, and carved and carried out a section of the bedding piece by piece to make a hidden slot for the box.

Secondly, I had never heard of a child going so far to hide something in this manner. It would have made the rounds, after all; destruction of property before it was unusable, even if it was your own, was a gossip-worthy offense in this poor town.

So I resigned myself to picking up straw pieces from _everywhere_ until I could sew up the cover.

Days flew, the harvest began, and mother hired out a group of contractors to go through our fields in father's place. Wheat, sorghum, squash, and potatoes. Carrots, grapes, sweet potatoes, and yams. Apricots ripened and showered the yard, so I climbed the trees with a basket to save the best ones.

We were fortunate; it was a _very_ good year for us.

The traders came, and prices were haggled for the vegetables and fruit we'd gathered. In the meantime we stowed our excess. We boiled water and dug the old glass jars out of storage, cleaned them, and prepared the vegetables. We salted and canned them, going back to the village and selling them to the traders.

The kitchen was filled with thick steam for a week and a half.

On the last day of canning, we heard a knock at the door. Thinking that it was Fran, I hurried to open it.

Doctor Yeager stood outside.

Anxiety curled my gut, but I let him in.

* * *

I woke up with the afternoon sun hitting my face. Surprised, I sat up and looked around my room. Heavy humidity hung in the air, and a mild headache pulsed from behind my eyes.

We were supposed to finish canning today...

I shook my head and hauled myself out of bed, stumbling slightly from exhaustion.

That was strange. I waited for my equilibrium to stabilize before listening to the low murmur of conversation echo from the living room. Nervously, I carefully opened the door to my room and walked out.

Doctor Yeager sat at the table.

I stopped in the doorway of my room and blinked in surprise, words spilling from my mouth before I could stop myself, "When did _you_ get here?"

He stopped talking to mother and turned as he heard me come in. His eyebrows furrowed together in concern as he stood to face me. "You don't remember?"

I shook my head. "No… I must have been asleep…"

His lips pressed into a thin line before brusquely opening his briefcase. "I see. What's the last thing that happened?"

"Well, we were planning on finishing the canning tomorrow, then I fell asleep," I dully stated as I walked over to the table and sat down. I looked around, wondering where the smell of pumpkin was coming from.

Rows of packed jars were neatly lined the shelves to cool.

Wait a second...

"We already did the canning?" I asked as my stomach sank, realization dawning.

We set aside pumpkin for today. I remembered talking to mother about what we had planned with the rest of our crop we didn't sell.

I felt a somewhat irrational flash of _hatred_ at Yeager, but quashed it as much as I could; _now was not the time_. I had to figure out what happened first before I decided what to do.

"Yes, you were finishing when I arrived," Yeager confirmed, pulling out a small pad and jotting down notes.

I frowned at my clasped hands. "You gave me the treatments," I accused, looking up at him.

"Only the second of the three, I'm afraid. I need to wait for a few weeks to see if it'll take," he answered, still writing onto the journal.

"…Will I lose any more memories?" I asked quietly.

"I don't know," he replied, setting down his notepad and looking at me. "You're one of the first of several who's gotten this far."

_How many others? _I wanted to ask, but kept silent. My head throbbed, and I shielded my eyes from the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window with my hand.

"How long was I out?" I asked, rubbing my nose.

"For a good three hours or so, at least," Yeager responded. Then he sighed, and pulled out a set of prepared papers from his briefcase. Tapping them against the table, he refreshed the ink in his pen and cleared his throat. I looked up at his solemn expression. "Now I need to ask you a few questions…"

I nodded numbly and settled back onto my chair, feeling lost.

What followed was a surprisingly thorough mental evaluation. I answered as best as I could, within reason.

He stayed for a few days, treating father and discussing business and life amicably with mother. I made myself as scarce as possible during the day, either holing myself up in my room if they were outside, or disappearing into the fruit orchard if they were inside.

They were inside more often than not.

I sighed and plucked another apricot from the tree and squished the meat between my teeth. Sweetness blossomed in my mouth, and I sighed. It was getting late; I'd better go and milk the cows.

The beauty of being on a farm was that there were always excuses; things to do, places to be.

I finished the milking, hauling the raw liquid in buckets to the house. Doctor Yeager was outside, looking at the herb garden mother and I had planted some years ago. Most of the herbs were seeded, dead, or dying, but he picked up a sprig of anise that had held on through the dropping temperatures.

I walked into the house and let the door slam behind me. Mother looked up disapprovingly, and I muttered an apology before bringing the milk to the stove to be pasteurized.

I gave an internal snort. They still called it pasteurization – I had run into a lot of _strange_ words while growing up, but finding that a process had retained a name that was _familiar_ to me was a shock. Commons shared characteristics of multiple European languages while retaining a strangely Germanic flavor. I couldn't find much influence of the English language, other than one or two obscure rules that didn't really factor into any normal conversation.

I poured the milk into a pot and stoked the fire in the stove top. Pulling the sand timer from the cupboard, I left it out on the table and pulled out one of my books to read.

Time passed, the milk warmed and began steaming. I adjusted the heat, leaving the milk at around the same temperature.

An hour later the sand ran out, and I hurried to bottle the milk as quickly as I could. With that done, I left the house and meandered in the direction of the barn while the milk cooled.

We have a store of ice out in the cellar of the barn from the previous winter. The process to keep the heat out of the room was rather interesting - basically, we packed large blocks of ice from the river into a small room and covered them with sawdust to preserve as much coolness as possible. Many of the blocks were either used or melted by this time of year, but there was still enough to gather to keep the milk cool in the fall. I dug out a piece and trotted back into the house.

After setting up the cooling box, I walked back into my room and dug out my journal.

Looking back on my conversation with mother after learning of my memory loss, I found that I only forgot the memories before a certain time frame – approximately eight hours or so.

I was still spooked.

And who wouldn't be? That was _my_ memory, _gone._ Poof. Just like that.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't remember what we did that day. In response I set aside some pages in my journal to act as a day-to-day diary and started a habit of checking it every morning, just in case the next treatment wiped out more than what I had lost last time.

Yes, I was lucky that it wasn't worse, but I felt _violated._ My memory was forcibly taken from me; my body injected with a foreign substance that had unknown effects. I couldn't even remember the doctor's face as he administered the shot to see what he felt.

Did he _know_ that something like this would happen? Did he _enjoy_ what he was doing? Was he truly _sincere_ about his work? Did he _care_ about my family?

I couldn't say.

Mother told me that the only thing I did after I received the treatment was to go to my room to sleep.

After digging around in my clothes drawer I found a piece of paper that sketchily detailed the day's events, hidden underneath my socks.

Despite the relief of having something to gauge the previous day with, I couldn't trust my memory anymore.

I _hated_ the possibility that at the end of the treatment, Doctor Yeager could be standing in my house telling me that the experiment was a failure while I sat dumbly, drooling from permanent brain damage.

But that... was neither here nor there. It wouldn't do for him to lose his test subject, after all. I was fairly sure that the research he invested in the titan shifting serum wasn't cheap.

In the meantime, Yeager had continued to honor his deal and was treating father's illness with a milky grey liquid that reminded me, vaguely, of the antibiotics that the doctors used in my old life.

Whatever it was, it worked. I could see the results within three days – his color had returned, and he wasn't coughing nearly as badly during the night. By the fifth day, he had enough energy to get up and walk around.

Mother was so happy that I couldn't help but smile along with her as father left the bed, on his own, to rearrange his bed sheets without assistance.

Life was much better now than it was three weeks ago. Father was well, and frankly, I felt as if I had come out of the treatment with little more than a light slap on the wrist.

So why did I feel so apprehensive of that considering look Yeager gave to me after I described my symptoms?

* * *

Unsettled, I waited for Doctor Yeager to leave before excusing myself and going to my bedroom. After closing the door, I made a beeline to my bed and dug out my box of notes. I skimmed over the first few and sighed in relief when I found that I could still remember writing those pages. Setting those aside, I dug deeper and gradually relaxed as I read the first few lines of my notes in English.

Those memories hadn't been stolen.

With a breathless laugh, I choked back relieved giggles and hurriedly put my notes and box away.

I lay on my bed and relaxed for a few moments, glad that one of my major fears had been proven unfounded. For now. A few minutes passed before I sat up and pored through the rest of my notes. Everything seemed good – I could remember what I had been thinking of when I wrote the notes down, and nothing was out of place.

A feeling of liberation was causing my hands to shake, so I carefully gathered all of my paper together and tucked it safely away into my box.

I went about my business before I went to bed with the world's most stupid grin on my face.

I could still read English.

_I still had my memories._

You know that feeling you get when you realize that you dodged a major bullet? Yeah. It's one heck of a rush.

* * *

But life went on. While I was wallowing in my worry, school had begun more than a month ago. Though I stayed home mostly to assist with the harvest and father's care, once he was well enough to function passably on his own I was sent out of the house.

It was a cool autumn morning, with the haze of fog refracting the early morning sun into a wall of pure white that blocked visibility past thirty meters.

The orphanage was only a slight detour away from the main road, so I walked through the familiar streets to Fran's home. The front of the large house poked through the misty fog that hung in the cool morning air. I stretched my arms, comfortable in the chill temperatures and light breeze.

I drew closer to the front doors, hesitating just before I stepped onto the porch as I heard a plate shatter over the sounds of an argument. That didn't sound good… I walked up to the front door and knocked loudly, hoping that my friend would hear me.

"Fran? Fraaaaan? Come on, we're gonna be late for school!"

The shouting on the other end of the door ebbed for a moment before increasing in volume. I strained my ears, hearing the rough, stressed voice of the head matron yelling at someone else. It was high-pitched, angry…

Wait.

_Fran?_

I jerked the knob back and the heavy door pressed against the weak latch. With some jimmying, the cheap catch skipped the frame completely. I hurried into the dark main hall through the aged and dusty wooden walls.

The hall was surprisingly long for the building, branching off into two staircases and winding their way onto the second floor down on my left. Dim candles lit the walls, providing barely enough illumination in the early pre-dawn light to see the numerous doors. I stopped near the dark double-doors of the dining hall and pushed open the creaky doors with a grimace.

I looked inside, observing the chaos cautiously. The crush of young bodies eating at the tables were in various states of agitation due to the confrontation at the middle of the hall. Some ignored the proceedings, while some that were closer to the epicenter were looking around for possible escape routes.

And there, in the middle of it all, stood Fran.

She was facing down the head matron of the orphanage, expression filled with exhaustion, defiance, and frustration. The enraged and harried face of the heavyset woman glared back at her in equal measures of exasperation, arms akimbo.

Fran shifted as she subconsciously reacted to the presence of a new person in the room. However, she was so focused on her argument she didn't notice me standing there. "And I'm telling you, I was tripped!"

"When ya can prove tha',_ won'nerful_." The matron growled at her, using her impressive height to her advantage by looming over the slight frame of Fran, "But n'less ya start payin' fer the damage tha' 'kips 'appenin'' 'round ya, I can'na keep ya here!"

"How? By selling myself to the perverts over in the west end?" She sarcastically replied, and received a rough cuff for her efforts. Fran yelped, but the matron's face, etched deeply with lines of anger at her defiance, pointed to the doorway I was in.

"Gerrouta here 'til yah've learned ta keep yer words in check."

"Fine!" She snapped, grabbing her meager school supplies, "Since I'm too much _trouble_!"

The matron stared dispassionately at Fran as she ran from the hall in tears.

Fran pushed against me roughly, forcing me to stagger against the door frame.

"Just leave me alone!" Fran shrieked to the room as she bolted into the fog.

I almost turned to run after her, but I heard the scrape of one of the heavy benches being pushed around behind me. I turned to look, and saw a group of young boys standing around a table near where the argument between Fran and the matron had happened.

Granted, the majority of the forty-some children in the room had paid attention to the fight, but this group… I recognized several of them from school. Geoffrey and Bleiki. Those two exchanged secret, vicious smirks. Novik, Peeters, and Yanev were even fighting _giggles._

I turned and ran after Fran.

* * *

The cobbled roads of the village were beginning to bustle with the early-morning activity of the craftsmen and women. A few children were walking about, holding their writing slates and thin books.

I found her on the way to the school huddled in a cold nook behind a carpenter's house that we were fond of using for hide-and-go-seek. Her shoulders shook silently.

"Fran?" I asked, slowly walking into the alley.

_"Go_ _away."_ She growled, curled into the corner of the wood pile.

I frowned and stopped next to her, "I don't think so."

"I don't want you here!" She shouted, voice cracking.

I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms. "Too bad. You have to deal with me now. What happened?"

She whimpered, curling up into herself even tighter. Her face was hidden by her knees and her loose blonde hair. Absentmindedly, I grabbed a small hair tie from my pocket as I crouched beside her.

"Here," I offered. Fran took the piece of string and tied her hair back into its customary ponytail.

"S'not like you can understand…" She sniffled, running her bare arm across her face. I winced, wishing that I had a handkerchief or even an old rag.

"Try me," I challenged, "What's going on?"

She was quiet for a few seconds, shivering against the chill air. "They're always _there!"_ She finally exploded, "And I can't _do_ anything about it!"

I shook my head. I thought as much. "What happened, Fran?"

And just as if a dam broke, Fran began to cry again in earnest. I stayed crouched awkwardly as a jumble of words came pouring out of her like so much water.

"They – they told me I wa-was _stupid!_ Then they took m-my slate and kept it away from me a-a-and dumped it in the street! Then they told me I–I was _ugly_ and that I would never get into the Survey Corps! Then they said I was s-s so stupid an' ugly, th-the_ military wouldn't take me_!"

I sighed and moved closer to her, pulling her into a hug. I patted her back while she wailed into my shoulder. I shook my head. The scenario she described would be devastating for pretty much any eight-year-old.

"How long have they been doing this?" I asked, careful to keep my voice gentle.

"I-I dunno," she sniffled, rubbing her dripping nose, "They started in the middle of summer an' they k-keep doing this an' _they're not stopping_!" She wailed, sobbing even harder.

I let her cry for a few minutes, humming quietly as she tried to compose herself. Soon her sniffles became hiccups, and I shifted slightly.

"Hey, we need to get to school or we're gonna be late. You alright?"

"Yeah…" She sniffed, rubbing at her eyes with grubby fingers.

We stood and walked towards our destination in silence, listening to the distant rattle of carts and scuffs of people.

Head tucked into her chest, Fran fiddled with the threads coming off of her sleeves.

"Sorry, Lisa."

"For what?" I asked, looking over my shoulder at her, "Being upset that someone's harassing you?"

Fran shook her head and replied with a quiet voice, "No, for being so worthless…"

I stopped completely, turning around and facing Fran squarely. She squeaked and looked at the ground, red faced.

I sized her up quickly as she cringed away.

This… could be an issue if she kept this up. Fran was one of those people that existed to be happy, and seeing her like this was depressing on so many levels that it was pathetic. Not to mention, having low self-confidence could lead to her becoming an underachiever. And that more than likely would kill her in the long run if she joined the Corps.

"If I thought you were worthless, I wouldn't have talked to you in the first place."

She looked up at me in surprise.

I shrugged one shoulder, grabbing her wrist (eliciting a surprised yell from Fran) and hauling her towards the schoolhouse.

"Come on, we're late enough as is."

I entered the classroom for the first time in five weeks. After taking a quick stock of the behavior of my classmates, it was painfully obvious that Fran's trouble had been going on for some time.

The boys I had seen earlier would snicker quietly, whisper to her at her desk whenever we were separated, and make obnoxious faces before mockingly blowing kisses at her. They never did these offenses frequently enough for the teacher to notice.

The brunet and blond heads of Novik and Bleiki jeered at me. I glared at them in irritation. Novik whispered something to his friend, who laughed.

_Alright, enough of this._

Carefully closing the book in my hand, I fully turned toward them and stared at them.

And kept on staring.

They soon lost interest and moved onto easier targets. I pulled out my book and continued reading, a frown on my face.

This… could be an issue.

There was always a chance that the situation could get more physical between the (much larger, I unhappily noted) boys and Fran if left unaddressed.

As capable as she was, Fran was more suited for speed than enduring fights.

What I found most interesting was that the boys in question were smart enough to not draw attention. Well, that just meant that going through any authority figure was out.

For now.

Until then, I would have to get a better bead on the situation.

And after that, _plans_ would be made.

* * *

It took less than two days for me to seriously rethink my initial assessment.

I'd had _enough_ of this juvenile shit. I lived through this once in my pre-university years; though these little kids' attempts were more irritating than anything else, I _really_ didn't need the reminders of what I had endured as a kid before I died.

It was much worse than I thought.

They were only targeting the girls around my age. Though they lacked the inherent malice of the older teenagers from my fist life, they were tenacious little _bastards._

A 'misplaced' pen or inkwell here, an 'accident' to shatter a stylus there, a bump that wasn't quite a _shove._

If kept up for any extended length of time, tactics like this could easily bring someone unaccustomed to psychological torment close to their limit. If I didn't know these children were just that; children, I wouldn't have hesitated to bring about a conclusion that would have been _so much more_ than simply _humiliating._

As it went, I settled for gathering some herbs from around the property – hawthorn, especially.

Diuretics were wonderful things, especially if discretely placed in the snacks the boys commonly brought to curb their appetite until dinner.

But I couldn't overuse the herbs. Funny as it was to force them to cause disruptions in class and draw attention to themselves, dehydration could become a major problem and I didn't want to cause any major permanent health problems. I stopped my treatment after the second dose, and while the medicine ran its course Fran, me, and several other classmates were finally, _finally,_ left alone for two days.

But it was too good to last.

Apparently either Geoffrey was smarter than he looked or I wasn't careful enough, because as soon as he could walk without wetting his pants again he targeted me.

Well, at least it got the heat off of the other kids. Mostly.

I ran interference for Fran whenever I could, and kept near the adults I knew I could trust to act if they saw something. But eventually all five of the boys decided to band together and bring the bullying to another level.

It was then I realized that my little eight-year-old reputation wasn't going to intimidate them.

* * *

I was walking home, taking one of my usual shortcuts, when I spotted the short, shaggy hair on Geoffrey's head in the middle of the crowd.

Annoyed, I kept walking, then turned left. Down three alleyways, duck into the fourth, climb the short fence here… I turned around the corner into a moderately sized yard sprinkled with tall piles of junk. Old carts, scrap wood and burn wood, ancient stoves and trash laid scattered across the courtyard, grass and old growth tangling through the piles.

As I walked forward, something flew at my face. I flinched backward, hearing a pile of wood behind me clack as something hard struck it. Movement from behind the largest pile of rocks and old wine barrels stopped me from turning to look at what had been thrown at me.

I saw the distinctive horsey face of Yanev, followed by the blond Bleiki and Peeters. I felt the first stirrings of fear in my gut as I heard two other footsteps scrape from behind me. A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed what I thought; Geoffrey and Novik had finished surrounding me.

"You know, my parents are expecting me to return to the house by five," I mildly warned, carefully positioning my back towards the nearest junk pile and slowly backing towards it.

"Aww, does the widdle baby have a bedtime?" Peeters jeered, his too-wide mouth splitting into his round face.

I shook my head nonchalantly, looking for an easy escape route. "Nah, not really. Just sayin' you guys should probably keep this conversation short."

The group was uncoordinated, I noticed; one boy would scrape closer, then another would shift from foot to foot while the others either faked rushes or drew closer slowly. It was interesting in a detached, clinical way.

"So, Geoffrey says he saw ya messin' with our food a few days ago. That true?" Bleiki asked.

Ah. So I was spotted. Damn.

"Nah, why would I wanna do that?" I drawled, foot bumping into something hard and square. I didn't look down, but I stopped. "So, what's the plan?" I asked, inwardly cursing when the last opportunity for escape closed just as I noticed it, "You cowards gonna hit a girl?"

"Naw, but now that you mention it…" Bleiki grinned, "I think it's high time we got some fun outta this."

Peeters stepped in, "We really didn't like what you did to us, girl. Why shouldn't we return the favor?"

"That was assuming you five weren't in the wrong in the first place." I mildly retorted, bending my knees and lowering my center of gravity.

"Don't get all high and mighty on me, _Mar-tin."_

"Ppht." I scoffed, "Real smooth there, kid. Using my last name like that'd intimidate me. What's the point of this, Geoff? You gonna hit me or not?"

My provocation was enough. They charged. I ducked and sidestepped, and two of the boys tripped on the uneven ground and rammed into each other. Geoffrey tried to punch where I had been a moment before and overextended.

I jumped forward over the fallen bodies of Novik and Yanev and grabbed Geoffrey's fist. One twist later, and he was sent hurtling into a nearby pile of burn wood. Bleiki hit me from behind while I was distracted and I staggered, pain radiating up on my back from my kidney. I lashed out quickly with a leg, lucky enough to hit him on his shin.

My back still in pain, I stepped back warily as Yanev and Novik stood up from the ground. I edged away from the pile of wood behind me, trying to leave a straight shot between myself and the low fence. A scrape came from behind me, and I barely turned in time to see Peeters swinging a fist at my face. I ducked, but wasn't fast enough and still got clipped on the crown of my head.

Bleiki had gotten up sometime ago and was suddenly there; I was punched across my face and chest while I was knocked on one leg and off balance.

I hit the ground hard, half-knocking the air from my lungs as I landed on my back and arm.

Coughing, I struggled to stand as quickly as I could without choking. Pain radiated up my back, arm, sides, and face. I could feel my skin heating up as my body tried to repair the damage.

This wasn't working. I felt more than heard Geoffrey and Bleiki taunt me as they drew nearer. I quickly looked around for a two-by-four or something I could use as a weapon, but Yanev interrupted my frantic searching as he stepped within arm's reach of me.

It was close enough. Ignoring the pain, I twisted my body around and swept his legs out from under him.

He fell with a yelp, but not before striking me painfully across the shin of my overextended leg with a flailing arm.

I grunted at the pain but kept enough presence of mind to snatch a piece of wood. I scrambled upright, heavily favoring my right leg. Peeters came at me from behind, but I roared and slammed his torso with the improvised wooden club.

Peeters dropped with a wheeze, and I turned and kicked Bleiki between the legs with my injured leg; shrieking in pain as white lights danced across my vision.

_Damn_ that hurt.

Bleiki fell with a hoarse scream, curling into a fetal position.

It was enough. Novik and Geoffrey bolted, leaving Peeters, Bleiki, and Yanev behind on the ground. I rubbed my face where I could feel swelling from the punch Bleiki had gotten off.

I groaned in pain and left the now-quiet area, slowly limping my way home.

* * *

End

Did you know...?

The flowers and berries of hawthorn plants can be used to make a natural diuretic tea. The resulting concoction is invariably bitter, but would stimulate the fluid production in the kidneys. It can be used to treat kidney stones, but I have been assured by a friend of mine that beer is much more effective as alcohol can help with the pain (be sure to drink responsibly and follow your local alcohol laws).

This was one FUN chapter to write. I really enjoy fight scenes, especially the crazy ones while in a first-person perspective.

I just wanted to give a HUGE thank-you to everyone who favorited and/or reviewed this fic. You stroke my abused ego and help me to write! Especially with your speculation - that really helps me consider new avenues I hadn't even imagined before!


	6. Chapter 6

Hiyas! I got a betta. Bettas are really fun to watch. Have any of you ever had a betta before?

Another thing: I just discovered the NeiR OST. I'm crying right now. The music is so saaaaaad... *bawls*

On with the story!

* * *

Funny thing about my regeneration – I healed as I went. If someone was fighting me, I had to be put down hard and _fast_ or I'd just get up again. The drawback? I always got the _mother_ of all migraines and a barely-controllable bloody nose if I pushed or damaged myself too severely.

As for the bullies...

I had expected retaliation of some kind - anticipated it, really - but I didn't expect them to resort to going through an authority figure. I guess their bruises were too obvious to hide, or they just didn't care about the hit to their reputation at this point.

The matron arrived at our doorstep the day after my fight. Mother let her in, exchanged a few words with her, and asked me to go into my room.

Long story short, in the span of twenty minutes I was tried for assault, grounded to stand in the closet for an hour, and sentenced to community service for 'fighting my peers.' I plead my case as self-defense, but I didn't have _proof_. The matron claimed I was the aggressor - by this time I had already healed up - and as the evidence stood, it looked like _I_ had jumped _them_.

Let me just say that the switch was a common punishment for where I lived and leave it at that.

A pile of roadapples steamed on the cobblestones of the main street. It was high noon - _miserable, humid,_ high noon. The sun beat mercilessly down on my head and shoulders as I stopped to wipe the sweat out of my eyes with a forearm. Mr Dolahov, the bulky man who passed as our local law enforcement, stood in the shade of the storefront. He leaned against the post, a newspaper in hand. He glanced at me when I stopped working but turned back to his reading material with a snort. Derision fairly rolled off of him in waves.

Unseen behind his back I rolled my eyes and turned away from the false front of the general store. I shoveled more crap into the wheelbarrow with a wrinkled nose. There was a dump - an immense pile of trash in a pit at the outskirts of the village, around three or so blocks from where I was at. I filled the wheelbarrow and made my way down the street.

Gossip spread fast in our little town. At least most people weren't overly rude about it. It was still annoying to walk around and notice someone referring to me as 'that troublesome girl' while the other person sighed and tutted. Rolling my shoulders, I dumped the load into the pit, waving away flies that had tried to settle on my face with a grimace.

Disgusting. I hated those wriggling insects with a burning passion. Winter was my favorite season – no bugs, no heat, snowstorms stopping the school year…

Ah well. I still had to survive the fall. I moved the wheelbarrow to the next pile of dung and went back to shoveling. An hour passed, then two. Many more trips were made between the dung heap and the main street. A sleepy snort came from my left as Mr. Dolahov shook himself out of his doze. I turned to look at him, resting heavily against my shovel. Without looking at me he leisurely stretched, scratched his stubble, and checked his watch. I intentionally scraped my shovel a few times against the ground, and he looked up at me in surprise.

"You're still here?"

I quirked an eyebrow in response, sliding the tip of the shovel into a crack and rolled my fingers against the long handle.

Mr. Dolahov cracked his neck once, then shrugged and waved me off. "Get going home – you were supposed to work until twelve anyhow."

I replied flatly, "It's two in the afternoon."

Dolahov shrugged, uncaring, "So what? I'll see you on Friday after school's out."

I frowned, shifting slightly, "You're not gonna tally these hours to my punishment?"

"Trust me so little, eh? I was going to. Now get," He shooed me away, picking up the newspaper from where he had dropped it and walking towards the local jailhouse.

I scurried.

* * *

School the following Monday went about as well as it could have. I walked into the small building, blinking as my eyes adjusted from the bright early morning light to the dimness of the inside.

Fran, as per usual, had walked with me to school that day. We made our way to our usual seats and scooted around the desks occupied by Geoffery and his friends. Bleiki looked up to see who had jostled his bench, smirked at Fran, but then saw me and paled. Geoffery, Yanev, and Peeters stopped their conversation to see what happened, but then caught sight of me too.

I had already healed up and was fresher than a daisy. The shocked expression on Geoffery's face was almost, _almost_, worth everything I had gone through.

When we filed out of the classroom for our first 'recess' I noticed that two of the boys were hiding limps, Geoffrey was covering deep scratches across his back with a long sleeved shirt, and Bleiki spoke with a _slightly_ higher voice than usual.

The day passed without incident or conflict, or once. Fran giggled, and I looked to see her pointing at something out the window while talking to another classmate. Smiling, I looked down at my slate and began writing the sentences dictated in the reader.

Aside from my punishment, at least everything was back to normal. Mr. Kreef stood up to walk to the front of the class, and I closed the schoolbook.

* * *

Father was still stable, so I convinced mother to let me burn some of the contaminated blankets and clothes that were beyond saving or washing at this point.

Bleach was a rare thing to have out here; otherwise I would have saved the blankets. We only had a liter inside of a thick glass bottle that mom had bought several years ago. I used nearly half of it trying to disinfect all of the surfaces in the bedroom and other areas in the house that we couldn't easily replace.

As I cleaned, I couldn't shake the feeling that the remission was only temporary. The medicine here... though I was shocked at its initial effectiveness I knew that the medical technology wasn't nearly advanced enough yet to guarantee father was cured.

I voiced my concerns to mother, but she only tightened her lips and shook her head.

"Doctor Yeager mentioned he needed to bring more of his medicine for Anton. Perhaps you're right, but we need to have _some_ hope. He's still walking around."

I nodded and went back to cleaning.

The weather stayed fair, and in spite of the cooling temperatures our animals remained healthy. I began whittling once again, beginning work on an 'exotic' animal – a large bobcat. The walls were located somewhere in central Europe, so 'common' fauna from the Americas were all but nonexistent outside of the history books.

With the rough shape for the body carved out, I settled myself down for scraping out the details on the ears and face. It was slow work. Though muscle memory had improved my dexterity, my knife was just _slightly_ too large to easily make the details I wanted.

The front door opened, and looked up in surprise as father tiredly came out of the house.

He was still pale, I noted absently as I placed my tools on the floor, jumped up, and gave him a hug. He smiled gently and gave me a squeeze back, making his way towards the bench and sitting down. I cleared off all of the wood shavings from the other end of the bench and perched on the edge of the seat, drawing my knees up to my chest.

Neither of us spoke for some time, watching the sun set in the cloudy sky as the chiffchaff and late orioles chattered in the trees.

I turned, quietly gathered my half-finished figurine and tools from the floor, and was about to leave. Dad cleared his throat, so I stopped and looked up at him in curiosity.

"What're you making?" He asked, holding out his hand for the small animal I had made.

"A bobcat… There was a picture in the books," I explained at his blank look, handing him my work.

He hummed and nodded, turning the piece of wood over in his hands. "I talked to Rimes a while ago."

"The trader?" I asked. There were several Rimes living in the village, but trader Rimes was one of our go-to people if we wanted to sell anything wooden.

Father nodded, "He said you've been selling him some carvings. He had some high praise for you."

"Oh." Was my ever-so eloquent reply. I honestly thought he only purchased my animals because he was humoring me.

"He mentioned that there were several shops in Hermiha that bought several of your pieces."

I blinked, surprised. There were several carpentry and sculpting shops in Hermiha; hearing that someone bought figurines from a trader was something that didn't happen all that often.

"He has a good eye for opportunity," I replied neutrally.

Father chuckled. "Indeed he does. He said they liked your 'military emblems' set. Why the sudden interest?"

I fell silent and leaned back against the bench. "It was a while ago, and I don't make those plaques too often. He never mentioned that his customers liked them."

"Heh. He was bragging to me that some rich woman bought your Military Police emblem off of him for twenty-three silver."

My jaw dropped. "That would have been enough money to feed all the kids at school for a couple of _weeks_!"

Father chuckled, ruffling my hair. Ignoring my squawks of protest, he shook his head, "They live differently in the inner cities, hon. I used to make a half-ingot a year as a trader."

Smoothing my hair, I eyed him skeptically.

He shrugged, "It's true. If it wasn't for the losses to thieves and upkeep costs, we would have lived like kings. It's a lot of traveling, and horses don't feed and shoe themselves."

I hummed in acknowledgement. Dad handed me my figurine and stood up with a tired sigh.

"I'm so tired these days..." He trailed off, and shook his head. Turning towards me he said, "You're growing so fast. You make me proud. Keep helping your mother, hmm?"

Smiling, I nodded, and he went back into the house. I turned back to my project as the sound of his bedroom door closing rang through the house.

* * *

Father's cough was worse the next day.

I sighed as I scribbled a few sentences onto a loose sheet of paper that served as a stand-in for my journal. Yeager had promised to return within the week. If he wasn't waylaid by anything on the way here, he'd probably come the day after tomorrow.

A hacking noise came from father's bedroom. It was a wet sound; never good. Mother was very worried and with good reason - father wasn't improving at all. I finished writing and hid the paper with the rest, hopping out of bed and working my way around the house.

Mother was outside checking on our fields, so I set about straitening up the kitchens and living rooms.

Fran once mentioned that she wanted to come over to my house and help out. I told her she couldn't come inside, but there was a fence that needed to be fixed. I could hear Fran's complaints echoing against the barn wall after a particularly loud piece of wood clattered against the ground. Reaching for another loose towel to gather into the laundry pile, I hurriedly folded it and moved onto the next.

A few minutes later I had finished up my chores, then went outside and slid onto the bench once again. Picking up the bobcat, I turned it around contemplatively.

I _really_ needed a smaller tool to work with.

Setting the figurine down carefully, I stood and went inside. Opening up the carving wood chest father always kept stocked, I dug around for something my young hands could fit around easily. There was a small branch near the far right corner, buried under several longer square pieces. Shoving them out of the way, I pulled the long piece from its resting place.

It rested in the palm of my hand easily. I trotted outside and shattered the piece on the ground, not really caring about stress fractures for now. If my experiment worked, I would look around for better tools when the spring traders came. Maybe I'd even get one for my ninth birthday…

I stopped, just realizing how quickly time flew.

I was turning nine next year.

It was sobering in a distant, almost unrealized way – the titans were going to return, and we were still living _here_. Though I was faced with my own mortality, I couldn't help but barely care, having long since resigned to the inevitability.

All I could hope for now was that the weather stayed fair and normal. A drought would prevent us from leaving our farm, and if we didn't leave before the titans came...

A breeze was blowing steadily over the land, and a stray gust curled around my black hair. I shivered and gathered up my wood tools.

The branch was quickly whittled down to a more convenient size and I went back inside. Rooting around in one of the drawers, I found some old nails that had been left over from when father built the counter top. It was an immense nail; almost as long as my hand. I probably could drive it straight through the small improvised handle I had and not have to worry about length afterward. I went outside and carefully set to drilling a small hole through the center.

With that done, I carefully braced the handle against the floor and hammered the nail in.

I now held a passable picking tool for the little notches I couldn't reach with my worn knife. Settling down on the bench, I began carving out the eyes and the fur.

The sun set completely, and I grabbed an oil lamp from inside.

I wasn't sure how long I worked on the carving, but I stopped as the oil in the lamp began to sputter some hours later. Flinching away from the sparks, I looked up and saw the moon was hanging heavily on the western horizon. I blinked in surprise, and glanced at the bobcat.

It stared back up at me _almost_ curiously.

I let my self smile, and tiredly fumbled around the floor as I cleaned up my mess. Walking into the house, I noticed that mother had fallen asleep next to the dying embers of the fireplace, her unfinished needlepoint lying on her lap. I carefully moved her project and brought out a blanket. Covering her with it, I waited a few moments for her to move. She didn't wake up.

A few minutes later, I collapsed on the bed and was out like a light.

* * *

We stood outside of the barn beside a sight most unusual among animalkind.

Fran stared.

I stared.

Mother, who had just walked up to see what we were doing, stared.

Fran broke the silence. "Wow."

"I really don't know what to say," I agreed. "I've never seen a goat do _that_ before."

Said goat bleated indignantly upon the driver's seat of the cart like he had been born there. Then it twisted its neck so that it was looking at everything upside-down.

The cart the goat was sitting on was parked beside a tree. I picked up a long twig on the ground and gently poked the goat's flank. It made a noise of complaint and hop-skipped sideways, tumbling off of its perch with an incensed croak.

Then it picked itself up and continued to look around itself with its head upside-down.

"I'm getting a crick in my neck just looking at it…" I sighed.

"I'm wondering how it got out from the pen," mother frowned.

The goat blinked lazily and wandered off, head still hanging.

"It might be sick... I'll put it in the back pen. Are you two coming?" Mother asked as she reached grabbed the unfortunate goat by its harness. I shrugged and turned to follow, but Fran ran after some chickens that had the bad luck to wander near the fence.

The small flock heard a living missile coming for them and turned as one.

They paused in a general consensus of 'oh crap' a millisecond before they all scattered. Three or four squawked loudly when she reached down to grab a chicken that had wandered too close.

"Get back here!" She yelled at the birds, diving for a nearby white one with a reddish comb. The chicken clucked and cackled, half-stepping and hop-skipping away from the little blonde terror. Fran suddenly reached and caught it by its tail feathers.

"BRAOOOOOOOOOOOOOUHWWWWK!"

I sighed as Fran brought the chicken back towards me, grinning widely.

"You could've just left it…"

"I know." She giggled petting the indignant bird's head, "I wanted to catch a chicken."

I gave the bird a small stroke on its head. It clucked, and I turned away and trotted over to the barn where mother had gone.

"Who's a crazy chicken? Yuss youuu are~!" I heard Fran coo as I went inside.

I rolled my eyes and walked up to mother. She was pulling down the saddle blankets for our horses, and I hurried to grab one that was slipping off of the top of the pile.

"Thanks, dear. Could you stick these on the clothesline?" She asked, handing me the small pile of folded blankets.

"Sure. Do you want me to beat the dust out of them?"

"Yes…" She stopped for a moment and tapped her chin in thought, "The wire beater's next to the sink."

"…Wasn't it in the cellar last time?" I asked skeptically.

"Probably. I'll have to talk to Fran about moving things around."

I shrugged, "Ah well. Be right back."

Minutes later, I left for the house loaded down with saddle blankets. Hanging them up as quickly as possible, I went inside and rooted around the kitchen for the wire beater. Before I went near the clothesline I reached into my pocket and hurriedly tied a small handkerchief over my nose.

There is almost nothing more satisfying in the world than hitting an old piece of fabric or upholstery and seeing the dust fly out of it. In this case, it was a nearly-opaque cloud of reddish dust and hair that had accumulated over a month.

I poked the defeated rug one last time and moved onto the next one.

* * *

That _stupid_ songbird just wouldn't_. Shut. _Up.

I groaned, curling into myself on my bed. My pillow had been tossed to the side sometime last night, so I groped the floor blindly, shielding my eyes from the sun with my scratchy blankets. Finding the soft lump, I gently tugged the pillow to the bed and covered my face. The cool fabric settled and soothed my fevered head.

It was really humid today.

I laid there quietly, simply enjoying being able to relax. A minor migraine pounded behind my closed eyes and I twitched, annoyed. I was thirsty too, now that I thought about it. Grumbling, I rolled onto my back and stretched luxuriously.

The sheer amount of early morning light from my window drew me up short. I had woken up _late_.

I quickly got dressed and left my room. The shriek of the rusty hinges stabbed into my eardrums as I opened my door. Wincing, I slowly edged into the kitchen. Surprisingly, or perhaps not-so-surprisingly, there was no one there. The house was strangely empty; mother probably already had gone out into the orchard to water the trees.

A quick check into father's room confirmed that he wasn't inside either. Mildly worried, I grabbed a fruit to snack on and rushed outside. There was no one in the outhouse, mother wasn't in the orchard or the henhouse, and there had been no sign of father anywhere.

At my wits end and not wanting to search the entire property, I made my way towards the barn.

"Mom?" I called, and I heard some burlap sacks shift around as someone moved them. Mother's head peered around the edge of the dividing wall, her long black hair pulled into a tight bun.

Her green eyes homed in on me, and she smiled. "Lisa! It's good to see you up."

"Sorry for sleeping in…" I blinked, looking around at the mess on the floor. It seemed like she was reorganizing the tools and feed, but… "Why aren't you working in the henhouse?"

"I did that yesterday," she replied as she pulled the wheelbarrow out of the pie of junk in the tool nook. I hurried to help, stopping the rakes and shovels from destabilizing and falling to the ground. Mother sent me a grateful look and moved the wheelbarrow away.

I shook my head once we had stabilized the tools, "No… that can't be right. Yesterday you said you were going to work on it in a day or two."

Mother paused in her work and stilled, looking at me in concern, "You... don't remember?"

"...Remember what?" I asked, carefully.

Mother stilled, and crossed her arms. "Doctor Yeager came two days ago. He gave Anton the rest of the medicine. You had the final treatment, too."

My stomach dropped.

_It happened already?_

"No… That's… I can't…" I stuttered.

_I just fell asleep..._

Mother looked at me in concern. "He left last night. You don't remember?"

_No,_ I realized with shock, _I didn't_. "I…No. What _happened_?"

Mother shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and reached for a bridle hanging up on one of the pegs. "Anton's up and walking now. Doctor Yeager ran a few tests and told me you had a very positive response."

"Did… was there _anything_ else?" I asked, hoping desperately, pleading, for something, _anything._

"…He mentioned that temporary short-term memory loss was a trend for his treatments."

And _that_ more than anything left me speechless. I had expected something like this to happen, but how could I even react when I realized that two days had _disappeared?_

"That's… good?" I hesitantly continued, brain still attempting to process the fact that I had lost_ two days_.

Mother wrapped up the lead on the bridle and placed it aside, reaching for another one, "You're awake; I'd say it's _very_ good. Do you feel well enough to keep helping me out with this?"

Listlessly, I shrugged and replied, "Yeah…"

"Thank you."

I quietly hauled the feed bags mom waved me towards, mulling this information over.

Whatever I had done those days... It was _gone_. Lost. Disappeared, stolen, however you wanted to put it. I wouldn't know what happened then. I still had no idea whether I had written down what had happened in my journal.

But...

Mother had said it was the 'last of the treatments' - I was _done_ and _finished_ with those cursed injections.

Something of my conflicted emotions must have shown in my face or body language, because mother stopped working and turned to face me with a concerned frown on her face.

"I know your memories are important to you, Lisa. If it helps, Doctor Yeager mentioned that the symptoms weren't chronic and that it only affected short-term memory."

That was… that provided some comfort, at least. I didn't respond, instead noisily moving some wooden sheets we usually used for roofing over to the side. Thinking back on what I was doing now... I didn't remember any of the panic I probably would have felt before Yeager gave me the shot. That, at the very least, was a plus.

It just left me with an empty, lost feeling. It was over, done with.

I could have been angry, I could have tried to reason this out, but the situation with Yeager had been going on for so long I was _relieved_ that I couldn't remember what had happened. There was only empty, numb _acceptance._

It was finally over. Raging against the sky wouldn't do anything at this point, even though the decision felt like it had been taken out of my hands.

So I quietly worked, relieved that I wouldn't have to deal with the pressure of Yeager's visits anymore.

* * *

Did you know...?

Bleach powder was patented by the Scottish chemist Charles Tennant in 1799. He was apprenticed to a master weaver, and was fortunate enough to have been schooled as a child.

Reactions? Please? My muse wishes to hear all of your voices! I can see you there, lurking, reading my story... :) So drop me a line!

I also attempt to reply to all of my reviews. Like I said, I really appreciate the response I get from my readers.

Thank you EVERYONE for reading - I hit over 1500 views with chapter five at the posting of this chapter!

See you next time!


	7. Chapter 7

Cheh. Next chapter AHOY!

This chapter has been betaed by the patient White Ink Penpal!

* * *

Father came home later that night.

He had taken Damien and gone out into the forest to replace the traps. Seeing him up and able to walk around on his own nearly brought me to my knees in relief.

Yes, I knew that Yeager had taken care of my father. Actually seeing it... It had finally eradicated any lingering doubt. I may have known that Yeager was the best we could hope for, but I was beyond relieved to see that mother's trust wasn't misplaced.

Father dismounted and walked towards the house. I ran from behind mother and tackle-hugged him.

"Oof! Lisa, careful!" He laughed, his one free arm circling around my tiny frame.

"Sorry dad." I pushed away from him and got a good look at his face, grinning widely. "You look so much better."

He smiled, and for once his face didn't droop or tense in exhaustion. He stretched, and I could see that he was breathing much more easily than he had in days. "I feel a lot better," He chuckled, "Hey, I'm starved. What's for dinner?"

"We have a stew... Is that a rabbit?" I asked, pointing at the bag in his other arm.

"Yep." He hefted his catch and grinned, "Got it with the crossbow when I went near the creek."

Mother walked up and drew father into an embrace. He gave her a kiss then, smiling, both of them turned and walked towards the house hand in hand.

My smile disappeared.; I still had to finish checking one more thing.

* * *

After dinner I quietly excused myself and made my way into my room and quickly looked through all of the usual hiding places. My searching finally bore fruit; a couple of pages of paper under my pillow scribbled in English.

I sat down and tried to decipher my chicken-scratch shorthand.

_Tuesday - Goat acting weird; might have rabies. Penned separately. Fran came and terrorized chickens (as per usual). Beat out saddle blankets. Returned blankets to barn. Worked in orchard. Yeager arrived near two o'clock - treated dad (very confident about effectiveness of antibiotics round). Doctor Yeager has given me the final treatment. Will write more after resting._

_Ate dinner - no tiredness, no memory loss, nothing new. Went to bed._

_Wednesday - Woke up approximately nine o'clock in the morning - experiencing memory loss from around two thirty in the afternoon on Tuesday. Yeager assured me and mother it was a harmless trend. Claimed memory loss never exceeded eight hours. Yeager asked to take me for walk around property with mother's consent. Has given her and me time frame shorter than two minutes. Mother approved. Time is nearly twelve noon. Will write more after returning._

There was a full half sheet of blank space left over. I folded the paper into my journal and put it away, a distinctly uncomfortable feeling pooling in my gut. It went without saying that I had been brought to my room unconscious after that 'walk'.

I could take a little comfort in the fact that mother didn't seem too concerned about yesterday.

And yet...

There was something _off_ about this entire situation.

I needed to test and see if there were any noticeable changes since the last injection. Pulling out my whittling knife with a grimace, I braced myself and poked my thumb. A drop of steaming blood escaped from the cut before it bubbled shut almost instantaneously.

That was a much faster heal time than before.

Unnerved, I put away my tools and crawled into my bed. Mother and father were staying out of the master bedroom until I cleaned it, so I waited for them to settle down. After their bustling subsided and their breathing evened out, I carefully got up and made my way out of the house.

A quick stop to the dark, creaky barn yielded a long knotted rope, and I made my way towards the well.

* * *

_I needed to know._

I hit the packed dirt at the bottom of the well and shook my tingling feet; I really should have let myself down a little more before dropping. Without really giving myself time to think about what I was doing, I reached up, drew my hand towards my mouth, and _bit._

I felt a flash of fear as I realized that something was _different_ this time.

_Something_ outside of my control stretched and _snapped._ A flash of lightning lit the inside of the pit, and then steam was _everywhere._

Pure force slammed into my body and head. A moment passed. I was on the ground with blood pouring from my nose. Blood seeped from the gouges in my hand and tremors racked my body as the air became filled with heat and haze. A strangled cough made its way past my throat.

It hurt.

It hurt _so much_.

I must have passed out for a while - I blinked, and the moon jumped from somewhere near the horizon to almost directly overhead. Coughing one final time, I rolled over and began hauling myself up the rope.

* * *

Making my way back to my room was an adventure in itself. I was exhausted from whatever stunt I had pulled, and it was around three in the morning by the time I finally succeeded in staggering into my house. It was dark and quiet. The hinges had been freshly oiled, so I pushed the wooden door open without a sound. I carefully picked my way past the creaky floorboards of the front room and looked over the sleeping forms of my dad and mom on the couch. Father was doing much better and sleeping far, far more peacefully than he had for the past month.

After pushing my bedroom door open quietly, I collapsed onto the bed with a muffled groan. Lifting my freshly-healed hand in front of my face for inspection, I sighed. Whatever I had done was sure as hell not titan shifting. Instead of successfully transforming into a humanoid mass of muscle and bone, I had done a rather stunning impression of a smoke bomb.

_Damn_ that hurt; I was definitely going to avoid doing whatever the hell that was, at all costs.

I let my hand drop at my side and buried my face into my pillow.

Here I had incontestable proof that I was experimented on with the titan shifter serum. It was painfully obvious to me that the formula was still incomplete - the sheer amount of backlash all but proved it. It _stung_ like nothing I'd ever felt before, and I had _no idea_ how badly I had injured myself with that stunt.

But I hadn't transformed and I only succeeded in generating a large amount of steam. That brought a kind of relief in itself, since titan shifting was inherently dangerous. The shifters in the story... they had to deal with the very real possibility of losing their life, losing control, losing _themselves..._

With this... I knew that I wasn't turning into one of those _monsters._ I was still _me._

I rolled over and tried to fall asleep.

* * *

The next day crawled by slowly, as it tends to do when waiting for something important. But eventually the day was done and everyone in the house was finally asleep. I quietly made my way to the edge of the well with a box under my arm and a blank journal under the other.

Mother had promised me that Yeager had said that this was the last injection. I was… unsure about what to feel at this point.

On one hand, I was done. Finished. I didn't have to deal with him anymore. On the other… What would happen next?

I built a fire beside the hole in the ground. It flickered, becoming a tiny thing that barely gave me enough light to read by. I set more fuel on it and let the flame grow hotter before setting a small branch into the middle. I coaxed the flames higher into a smokeless burn, watching as the fire licked hungrily through the wood.

Blinking spots out of my eyes, I turned and picked up the box full of my secrets from where I had set it down beside me. I read each page in turn, verifying and refreshing my memory before rewriting (in English) everything important in my new leather bound book.

With each new page copied I felt the burden of my memories lighten, just a little, as the knowledge that I wouldn't have to worry about any more of those memory-erasing injections finally sank in.

With a relieved sigh I threw the journal into the fire, leather covering and all. The odor of scorched leather wafted from the smoke, causing my nose to wrinkle in distaste.

_Nasty._

I didn't do anything for a few minutes; just watched the fire eat away at the journal with a kind of heavy resignation.

Then I let myself smile.

A moment passed, and the tension between my shoulders that I had felt for so long slowly melted into relief.

Not having to worry about the next change of seasons when Grisha came… not having to worry about losing myself to the chemicals anymore… it was nearly euphoric.

A moment later, I giggled.

The dam I had shored up for my emotions ever since that fateful day five years ago finally cracked, just a little. Then it broke. I laughed once again, but it came out as a sob. No one was around, so I gave up on appearances and lost the battle to keep my emotions contained. I let myself fall into hysterical laughter as I threw the last pieces of paper into the fire.

I was done. I was still me. It was finished, finally.

The cheap scraps caught easily and fluttered, rising up with the convection current from the fire into the starry, clear sky.

* * *

The winter passed surprisingly quickly. The heavy blizzards came once again, and with it a shortage of available food. Fran stayed at my house more often than not, snowed in with the rest of us.

All the better for her; we were wealthy enough to have stored extra supplies. The orphanage was barely scraping by, even with the support from the locals. My parents were fine with her staying over, and no one else complained about the amount of time she spent at our place.

My ninth birthday passed, and I received a small set of whittling tools made by my father. I was extremely happy about this - aside from taking care of the animals there was nothing to do except read, carve, and lay around all day when snowed in. On another note, father and I had decided to sculpt a life-size bear from some spare wood.

Fran helped us to carry the wood, and even helped to start the deeper cuts for the legs and torso. Father took care of the head and the finer details, while I slaved away on the legs and claws. Fran and mother kept up a steady stream of chatter in the background while we worked. The fire roared in the hearth. Occasionally we threw our woodchips at the grate.

Spring came, but weeks passed and Yeager didn't come to our house. I asked mother if she had heard of anything, but she shook her head.

"I don't know. However, I am content in knowing that both you and Anton are healthy and _safe._ That's all I wanted."

Shrugging, I went over to the whittling wood box and pulled out a small plank of walnut. Settling down on "my" rocking chair, I looked up at mom as I began to carve a small wooden doll. "When are the traders coming down?"

Mother shrugged and looked at the small calendar planner she had made a month or two ago on a particularly slow day, "Maybe next week."

* * *

Her prediction was accurate; five days later, the traders arrived.

The caravan of carts ranged from the grey ramshackle to the freshly painted. Dust puffed into the air and hung suspended, getting between the cracks of our house and onto everything.

Despite the mess, it always was fun to watch the parade of carts ride into town. Better still was seeing the few carts that actually gave me decent prices for my wares arrive.

"Rimes! Good to see you!" I called, hauling a large sack over my shoulder filled with wood carvings.

Rimes's head jerked up in surprise. He turned away from where he was setting up his cart with a raised eyebrow and pleased grin.

"Lisa? You've grown, squirt! How've you been? How're your parents?"

"We've been great! Father had a bit of trouble with chest dropsy, but mom found a good doctor for him. He's all healthy now."

"The dropsy?" He frowned in concern, "That's bad luck, there. Good to hear he recovered, neh?"

I nodded, "Yessir. Hey, whaddya have for me this year?" I asked with a grin as I set the bag down next to the chests he had already brought out.

"I found a new mix of walnut oil you might like for curing your projects. It's got some linseed in it. You wouldn't believe the trouble I had to go through to pick it up from the Utopia District."

My eyebrows involuntarily crept up my forehead. "You have it with you now?"

"Yeah, I knew you or your father would want a look at it. It's in the back, let me finish setting up the wagon and I'll let you have first dibs."

I nodded and leaned against his cart as he walked towards the back. His horse nickered, and I turned to look at it.

Tall, stocky, and proud, the Ardennes looked over its broad shoulder and whickered softly at me. I slowly walked in front of it and patted its broad flank. The horse gave me a long sniff, then decided I wasn't interesting and went back to whatever it was staring at before.

I sighed, giving him a few more scratches before returning to my previous spot.

Rimes came back around the cart, hauling a heavy table. I hurried to help him set it down. He let out his breath in a heavy woosh, face red and sweaty.

"Thanks, kid. Irma sure knew how to raise her daughter."

I shrugged awkwardly, not knowing how to respond to that. Rimes shook himself out of his reminiscence and turned back around.

"Ah well. Lemme get the display out."

I followed him into the wagon silently. He opened up the rear of his cart, and the smell of wood, oils, and herbs poured out and caressed my face invitingly. His wares were piled in a nearly organized mess, ranging from rare preserves to seeds to furniture, dyes and cloth to candy, and _tools._

Not just farm tools or regular tools, oh no. Specialized tools. Watchmaker's screwdrivers and gears, tiny glass lenses, and fine mirrored cases that cost more than I could hope to make in four years.

I wrenched my gaze away from the drool-inducing sight and helped Rimes haul out a heavy chest made from a rare dark wood. We set it on the table with a heavy thump, and Rimes set about to unlocking it while I stood back.

The main road was bustling with life at this hour. The early morning fog had burned off, leaving a bright, clear day with a stiff breeze.

"Here we go…"

I turned towards the table just as he pulled out a palm-sized bottle of oil.

"This beauty took me a while to get. I had to haggle down the price from twenty-three silvers."

I raised an eyebrow and chuckled, talking a closer look at the offered bottle. The nutty fragrance of walnut wafted around his hand, covering the dusty smell of travel that usually clung to his clothes.

"That's enough for half of a good horse out here… I'm sure your silver tongue ensured you didn't have to pay nearly as much as that."

"Right you are," he agreed cheerily, "But I still have to feed the missus and the horse, see."

I nodded, "True, but I can't just part with twenty-five silvers like that. I don't even have that much saved up."

Rimes snorted. "Don't try that with me. You scalped me last time I was here, girl. If it wasn't for how well you made those emblem plaques, I wouldn't have made any profit at all."

I held my hands up defensively, "Now there, I wasn't saying I was gonna cheat you. You still interested in giving me a discount on that oil if I throw in a couple of emblem sets?"

"Maybe. I need to see their quality first."

I shrugged, retrieving the sack from where I had left it, "Yeah, yeah, you miser. Hold your horses…"

I pulled out my wares and presented them to his professional eye. Rimes hummed, picking up a plaque with the training corps seal etched into the surface, "I see yeh've been experimenting with staining."

I finished arranging the four sets I had made down on the table, carefully displaying the pictures I had painstakingly carved and spent so much time on.

"I might as well," I demurred. "They always look so lifeless without that extra definition."

"True, that. There are a couple customers of mine who've been looking for some sculptures. Batty collectors." He scoffed, shaking his head. "Ah well, who am I to complain? Those rich folk in the middle cities have way too much time on their hands."

I snorted, amused, "I wouldn't know."

Rimes shrugged his broad shoulders as he shook his head. "Trust me, kid. You wouldn't like it there."

I sighed, switching the topic back on track, "You and I both know you'd get a full thirty silvers _per set_ if you sold them at once."

"An' I obviously can't pay ya that much. Three silvers per set for these three; five for the fourth."

I scowled at the low price, "Fourteen silvers? That's highway robbery, and you know it."

He grinned unrepentantly, replying, "A man's gotta make a living somehow, sweet cheeks."

I sighed in irritation, mentally tallying a 'fair' price for my wares and tripling it, "I'll need at least twenty-one from you per set."

"Twenty-! I still need to pay for transporting these to the cities! five!" He counter-offered.

Better, but all told it was still too low. I tightened my lips. "Eighteen per."

"Thirty-nine total, and nothing more _brat,"_ he growled, rolling his fingers on the surface of the table.

I tilted my head, considering for a moment. "You're lucky I don't need to manage a household yet…" I trailed off.

Rimes gave me a Look.

I sighed, "Fiiiiiiine. Sold."

He shook his head in frustration, gathering the plaques and storing them in the back, "If these weren't in such high demand…"

"Eh, I'd just carve something else. You're not getting rid of me that easily."

"True, that," he agreed, pulling out the small bottle and rolling it around in his palm. "So, I'll start the bidding of this lovely oil for forty-five silvers."

I glared at him, "You rat."

He held his hands up in surrender with a cheeky grin, "A man's gotta eat."

"And that oil's not worth nearly that much," I retorted, "I could go and buy from the Claes cart, instead…"

"You wouldn't buy anything from that quack and we both know it," he stated flatly, not amused at my empty threat.

I shrugged, "I gotta try, right? Ten silvers."

He snorted, "That's an insult. Thrity-five, and that strange cat thing with the detail and stained spots."

"Now who's kidding who?" I scoffed, folding my arms across my chest, "I need to save for my vacation, and the cat's gonna be separate, I think. Twelve."

"Vacation? What vacation? Thirty _with_ the cat, though that's against my better judgment. Where you headed off to?"

"I've always wanted to see Trost in the summer. And I can't pay that much for the oil," I replied. "Fifteen, and I keep the cat."

"Twenty-seven. With the cat," he responded with a heavy sigh, "Trost isn't really worth going to see, kid. It's a textile town; that's pretty much it."

"Really?" I asked skeptically. "Twenty, without the cat. I can't really say I've been in a place like that."

Rimes shrugged, "Twenty-five, with the cat. It's not a place worth noting. The Garrison's corrupt, and the Military Police hang over your shoulder all the time. Not like out here. "

I rolled my eyes and dug through my bag for something else to put on the table. "Well, the Garrison and Military Police are like that everywhere… Twenty-one, with the cat and this bear."

He picked up the bear I offered and eyed it over critically.

"…Alright," he sighed, setting the bear down on the table and pushing the oil towards me. "There's more Military Police officers the further you go in. Better living conditions in there - no one wants outer ring duty."

Money and figurines changed hands. Counting through the cash I had left inside of my purse I asked, "Alright. So, how much did you actually pay for this thing?"

He suddenly gained a smug air about him, responding with one of the widest grins I had ever seen. "Eight silvers and a cast-iron skillet that cost me around five silvers."

"…I feel really cheated," I groused, collecting my purchase and placing it in the smaller sack I had kept inside the larger one.

"Nah, don't. I can count on one hand who I'd give this kind of a discount to, and my wife's one of them."

Snorting in derision, I replied, "Discount? Really?" I picked up my much lighter pack. "Ah well. Take care of the bobcat, you hear?"

"What's a _'bobkaut'?"_ He asked, trying the strange English term on his tongue.

I ignored how he mangled the word. I couldn't find any local equivalent, so I went with what I knew. "Kind of like the lynx from up north, but from a country overseas."

He shook his head, "You kids have the craziest ideas nowadays. _'Bobkaut.'_ Hah."

"It's a unique piece," I responded with a shrug, "I'm probably not gonna make another anytime soon."

"Yeah, yeah," He waved me off, a speculative gleam in his eyes, "I'll weave a suitably impressive tale about this mythical _'bobkaut.'_ Thanks for the trades, kid. Make sure to tell your friends to come over if they need some sweets, hmm? They're straight from the Klorva District."

I laughed and nodded, giving him a wave as I walked away, "Sure, you old coot. Be sure to tell your wife I said 'hi'."

"Will do. Now get out of here before you scare the other customers away."

I gave a mocking eyebrow-touching salute, earning me a weird look from Rimes. I trotted towards the other wood trader with a snicker.

* * *

Summer passed just as miserably as usual. There was news of a drought hitting the western end of the walls, but we had the luck to live in an area far enough away that we weren't affected.

Of course, the end of summertime was always heralded by the start of school.

"But mo-om!" I whined as she pushed me out the door into the muggy morning. It was going to be a horrid day; the fog had already burned off, and the sun had only been up for less than an hour.

"No buts."

"I don't wanna go to school! It's so _boring!"_ I whined.

"And you need to say that you attended school in order to get a decent job," she sighed, shooing me out of the house.

I grumbled and obediently trotted off towards the village. I'd probably take a nap when I got there if the teacher didn't pry the windows open.

Fran had left the orphanage by the time I arrived at the town, so I silently made my way through the muggy streets alone. I wiped the sweat off of my forehead and stepped into the small schoolroom. What I wouldn't do for some cold weather right now…

I endured the start of the year with my usual longsuffering (that is, I sweated like a pig until the seasons began to change). But then the weather turned rainy as fall arrived. Today was one of those rainy days - water poured out of the sky in torrents. The cool was a welcome change form the summer heat, even though mother was shivering without her coat. We were dusting and wiping down most of the flat surfaces around the house, carefully working around the fine china and baubles mother was so fond of displaying.

A knock came at the door, and mother left her cleaning rag on the table to answer it. I idly glanced out the front window and saw a familiar horse and cart tied to our front fence.

* * *

Did you know...?

According to livescience, Justus von Liebig invented the silvered-glass mirror in 1835. Within a few years his process was refined; mass production eventually let most families in the industrialized world afford 'looking glasses'.


	8. Chapter 8

This chapter had been betaed by the irreplaceable White Ink Penpal!

* * *

The rag dripped onto the counter.

After wiping up the mess, I hurried towards my room. Father and mother were already moving to answer the door, and I could hear loud greetings exchanged in the doorway. I carefully looked around the small room, then picked my way over the wood floor and dropped on the bed.

The front door creaked shut, and I could hear father boom cheerily, "Doctor! It's good to see you so well!"

The lighter footsteps of my mother echoed in the living room as she walked away from the kitchen. Yeager cleared his throat, and his voice wormed around the cracks in the floor and door, "And you as well, Anton. Have you or Irma had any trouble?"

I could hear father pull a chair in the kitchen out from under the table. "Not really. I had some problems with the pollen a month back, but the season change cleared most of that up."

Clothe rustled and hard objects clattered against wood. A chair creaked from weight being sat upon it and was scooted across the wooden floorboards. In the noise I could barely hear Yeager's muffled reply, "Good to hear, good to hear. I'm afraid this will be the last you've seen of me for a while."

"Really?" I could hear my father's surprise as the scraping stopped. "Then, I must thank you for all that you've done for my family."

Yeager moved around, and clothes rustled as he gestured, "I should be thanking _you_. Your daughter has helped my research immensely. I need a final blood test, and then I'll be leaving."

"So soon?" Father pressed.

"You're one of the last families I usually visit; I'm already running late as it is. I've scheduled a fairly important meeting within a few days, and I must be back at Shiganshina by then."

"Well, make yourself comfortable then. Lisa?"

Taking that as my cue to leave my room, I mutely rolled off of the mattress and walked through the door. Yeager was sitting at the table and setting up his equipment. I pulled a chair out and took a seat silently.

Yeager met my eyes carefully, "Hello again, Lisa."

I nodded stiffly in reply, "Yeager."

Mother called father into the living room, and he left the room to help her after making sure I was comfortable. I rolled my fingers on the surface of the table, tension singing across my arms. "This is the last sample?"

Yeager 'hmmed' in the affirmative. "For the foreseeable future. If I need another one, I'll be sure to contact your family."

"...I understand."

Yeager worked silently for a few moments, pulling a couple of empty syringes from a case filled with alcohol. He carefully set those aside to air out, then tapped the table a couple of times as he thought, "How has the farm been?" he asked as he glanced toward me.

I frowned before replying neutrally, "Busy. One of our cows died last winter."

He gave me a sympathetic nod, "That's unfortunate. Did you like her?"

Shaking my head no, I replied, "Not really. She was a mean one. I did like her milk though."

"I see. What about the crops?"

Shrugging, I replied, "I'm sure you've heard of the drought out west. We had good prices this year."

Yeager clicked his tongue, "Yes, there's a food shortage in the inner cities."

He withdrew the syringe he had assembled. "Hold still, please." He asked, bringing the tool closer to me.

I nodded and I held out my arm. A pinprick, and he had what he needed.

"Thank you, Lisa."

As he put away the sample morbid, wicked curiosity reared its ugly head. It was nearly the end of year 844 – Eren would have stopped the slavers from kidnapping Mikasa by now... Before I could stop myself, I asked, "How's your son doing?"

Yeager hesitated for a split second, confirming my suspicions. Multiple emotions flitted across his face, but finally his eyes settled into a sad weariness before he me met my gaze.

"He's doing fine."

I nodded, and let the subject drop. He worked in silence for a while, scribbled a few lines on a notebook, and placed the sample inside of the small cold box.

"How long does that stay insulated?" I asked, curious.

Yeager tapped the box. "If I don't open it, it can stays cold for up to three weeks. Here, feel the outside."

I touched it. Surprisingly, it wasn't cold at all. In fact, it was nearly room temperature. "Amazing. The case isn't absorbing any heat."

Insulating a container like this... we had cold boxes, but those were generally found in the cities. I hadn't heard of anyone actually improving on the idea. The case was somewhat light too. That was enough to bring me up short - the cold-box was _years_ ahead of its time. Where did he _get_ this thing?

Yeager looked at me in surprise, "Yes… How did you learn about that?"

My lips twisted in remembrance as I leaned back into my chair, "…I read about it in a book." Technically true, even if the book was from fifteen years or so before I died.

Yeager tilted his head curiously, and his glasses flashed dully in the sunlight. "Most children your age wouldn't understand a concept like that."

"Most children don't like reading." I retorted.

Yeager gathered his tools together. "If only books were cheaper to make, and education was given a higher priority…" He trailed off.

I shrugged.

He sighed and put away the last the equipment before turning back to me, "I know you've been subjected to a lot because of my treatment, and for that, I am sorry. I only hope that you can forgive me someday."

My thoughts ground to a halt.

_What._

Abruptly standing, I turned to face him fully and crossed my arms. His expression wasn't guarded, it was _resigned. _

Disgust twisted in my gut. "After all I've been through…" I trailed off, mind clouded by anger, "You only saved my father's life after I agreed to your terms. You used _me_ like some test animal. You _bribed_ my _parents_."

He folded his hands on the table, "I don't want to justify my actions. Your sacrifice has helped humanity immensely."

My stomach turned_. _He looked so... _comfortable_ saying those words; it was obvious he had come to that conclusion some time ago; possibly years, even. Despite all that I knew and what I was feeling, I _did_ understand his position. Here, in _this_ culture, _everyone_ had a right to ask for forgiveness. Already, I could hear _this_ mentality rise to justify the actions of this man - after all, he is a _great_ man; an _asset_ to humankind.

I stepped back from my conflicting emotions. I needed to look at this situation with clean, simple, _logic._

The fact that _I was still alive_ stopped me from flying into a rage at the _presumption_... I cut that train of thought off and took a deep breath.

_No. Step back. List the facts_.

Father had been cured. The man in front of me had saved at least tens of thousands of lives.

...Those _facts_ didn't excuse what had happened.

"I see." I responded, leaning back into my chair. I gave a tired, hissing laugh and sneered, "My 'sacrifice'... hah. I'm pleased to be _alive, _at the very least." I flung my barbed words without meeting his eyes. A moment passed, but there was no hitch in his breath, only steady breathing.

Maybe he _did_ care, just not in the way I thought was 'right'. Maybe he did truly want to help humanity... I turned and faced him, and met his impassive mask of a face.

"You know, there's a hard freeze coming in two days."

Yes, I hated him.

But I couldn't continue feeding that hatred. A friend of mine once said that hating someone else is like holding coals to your chest - it's a great motivator, but in the end you're the only one that gets burned. If I kept nursing my resentment it would cloud my judgment. I would have to deal with self-sustaining paranoia and delusions. If even encountered anything vaguely _reminiscent_ of this man...

I wouldn't be able to help myself or my family if I fell into a panic attack whenever I went to a clinic.

Yes, the reasoning and justification was much easier to stomach when I _knew_ that I probably wouldn't see Yeager again.

The doctor nodded towards me in acceptance of my olive branch. "Thank you."

* * *

December came, and Fran turned ten.

We almost forgot about her birthday in the flurry of panic. Everyone was preparing for the immense storm the elders had predicted, and it looked like a bad one. We already had cirrus clouds for two days, and a heavy storm front had begun to move in.

Father was forced to tie one of our thickest ropes between the house and the barn as a handhold and guide through the potential whiteout conditions. Mother had stockpiled as much wood inside and on our porch as she could gather, and moved all of the chickens and goats into a spare pen inside of the barn.

Fran shamelessly began sleeping over, cocooned in some of our spare quilts.

"Your food's better anyway," she would complain at the dinner table, wearing two of our old sweaters as she gulped down some wheat porridge.

I helped around where I cold, tying down coverings, dusting old blankets retrieved from storage out, and gathering dry branches whenever I could.

In the town, shop windows were covered to preserve as much heat as possible for the inhabitants. The price of firewood skyrocketed, and tallow and preserved food rapidly flew off of the shelves. It was a hectic time, but eventually the preparations were completed and everyone settled down as the sun set.

The blizzard hit us the next day.

For a full week the town was hammered by the storm. Trees shattered in the subzero temperatures, crackling like thunder over the frozen fields and hills. Snow piled up around the house, insulating it against the howling winds and shrieking sleet.

A few days later, some of our animals fell ill. Father was forced to isolate them in a corner of the already-crowded barn.

The snow covered the sky and turned day into night. In the darkness, Fran and I amused ourselves with old corncobs she even fashioned a few into dolls using scraps of rags mother had rejected when making wicks.

Watering the animals had become a major issue. Any water source had been frozen over (in fact, we couldn't use the pump in our house for fear of the pipes breaking), so we had to heat multiple gallon buckets of water inside of the house. Father or mother then had to haul the buckets into the barn.

As for milking... The wind was so stiff; returning with the milk became an adventure in itself. Sometimes, the temperatures were so cold that the pail would be halfway frozen before they made it to the house. This didn't always happen; more often than not a gust of wind would upend the pail, spilling it all over the frozen ground.

Days passed and the snow kept coming. The house was sturdily built and easily withstood the weight on top of it without groaning. Well, too much, at least.

The same could not be said of the henhouse.

An immense crash came from the outside on the second to last day of the blizzard. Almost all of us had been jolted into varying states of alertness. Father sighed and went back to his workbench, whittling away at some replacement doorknobs for those that had been ruined by the cold. We all quietly followed his example ans went back to what we were doing before.

The storm finally blew itself out, letting us all out of our houses to survey the damage.

Two old hens died from the cold, one of our calves was sick, the henhouse had partially collapsed and needed to be replaced. The well was nearly covered with a foot of snow, and the top had frozen over.

At least we could still melt the snow for water, but it was an unfortunate inconvenience. We fixed what we could and went on with our lives. A few weeks later, another storm rolled through.

Then another.

And _another_.

Each month, we had to deal with heavy snow for half of the time, and at least one blizzard every three weeks.

People began to fall to cabin fever or illness. A fever ran rampant throughout the town. Fran didn't set foot in the orphanage for two months - father and mother didn't mind.

But we were fortunate. We stayed inside the warm house, with high spirits. We had enough things to do to not worry about cabin fever.

Spring came, but something was _off_ about the new season.

We never really did get to travel to inner walls.

* * *

The sky _burned._

I shielded my eyes, peeing up at the thin ice clouds that heralded the change of seasons with a frown. I smelled smoke today.

Father and mother were both worried, though they had tried to hide it. The winter had been hard, but more worrying was that the spring rains hadn't come. The fields were dry, and the wheat we had sown wasn't growing. The stalks were barely ankle-high and dry as a bone. The first wheat harvest came and went, but the fields hadn't produced any decent grain.

A town meeting was called to discuss the minor drought, and with a generals. Food rationing and distribution became a major topic of discussion for a week or so. The drought was only a minor cause of worry - we had gone through weather similar to this before, but we were forced to remain around our farm to keep an eye on the situation in case the weather worsened.

We had fewer trader caravans come through the next market week. The ones that did arrive told us that the drought had affected the entire countryside, from the western wall to the southeast. At this news, we bought as much preserved food as needed and restocked our already full cellar, regardless of cost. Even before we purchased the food we were self-sufficient enough that we would have been fine for at least two seasons. By now, we were able to support Fran and her habit of practically living at our house.

We had another worry, however. Poorer people that worked menial tasks and labored in the fields lost their jobs when it became apparent that this growing season would be a waste. They took to the countryside, hunting and scavenging what they could.

But some didn't know _how_ to survive outside. Our livestock was continually threatened by thieves and wanderers looking for a free meal. We had to sell most of our birds and the two cows after someone stole the milk goat out from underneath our noses.

Father had taken to keeping his single-shot pistol within easy reach, and after we heard news of a family being attacked near the forest I never went anywhere without my largest whittling knife.

Normally, temporary food shortages were relatively commonplace in the outer walls, so we and the town had been prepared for this reality. Droughts, winds blowing away topsoil, and overworked fields all contributed to the spotty production from farmers in the outer rings. They even threatened our farm on occasion, but usually there were more than enough farming towns to make up for the lack of production. This was the first time I had seen that over half of the outer wall failed to produce enough grain to feed itself.

But then the summer rains came, heavy and long, and hopes began to rise for a better growing season.

Or last crop was nonexistent, but the next growing period came and father and I sewed some wheat and sorghum. Though we were still having issues with the lack of groundwater, we were able to salvage three-quarters of the crop within six weeks. The farmers collaborated their efforts, and a number of families, including the Andersens, the Nowaks, the Barbus, and the Malakars were able to support the village until the early fall harvest.

Despite the drought of Wall Maria the year before, no one had expected such a widespread drought to happen. The severity of the food shortage made itself known within the month. Despite the aid that had come from Mitras through Trost, it wasn't enough. There were still deaths; mostly the homeless and poor.

Fall came, and the harvest was healthy and plentiful enough that we could help support a couple of nearby villages. Tensions around the town settled, but the scars that the shortage had left behind were painfully apparent when I returned to school.

We walked through the quiet streets, giving polite greetings to the people as we passed them by. Multiple empty seats greeted me as I walked into the schoolroom for the first time in months. We entered the school building and sat, waiting for the other children to file in.

Only two thirds of the class made it that day.

Most were only staying home to care for ill family or friends, but there were always the few who were part of families that weren't well off enough to emerge unscathed.

Seven families had been attacked by slavers; two mothers and three fathers were dead. No one knew where their children had gone. Bandits had raided the food stores, causing multiple families to go without food for weeks on end. Several of the children couldn't handle the starvation conditions they were subjected to. In other parts of the town, at least twenty graves had been dug by the undertakers for the wandering homeless that couldn't support themselves.

But time passed, and we lived as we had before. In the end, what could we do other than offer our condolences to the families? What was done was done. It was a fact of life out here.

Fran tugged me off to the side, whispering a question about one of the math problems on the third class reader.

* * *

Today was unusually quiet. A light breeze started some time ago, playing through the grass in the meadows. Crops, barely poking through the ground after the series of heavy rains we had waved in the breeze. A man was plowing his fields in the early morning cool, his two donkeys still damp with dew. Puffly clouds sailed across the sky, and the humidity had returned with a vengeance after the rain yesterday. The winds blew through the fields from the southwest today, the whispers foretelling cold weather and changing seasons.

Fran and I slowly made our way through the town.

Sometime during the food shortage Fran had been adopted by our family in all but name, even to the point that she and I shared the bedroom and closet space.

It was nice, in a way, but there were other things I was more worried about. It was fall. The year was now 845, and Wall Maria had not been breached yet.

The rains had come through and everything was still green, but that wouldn't last long. Cattle lowed in the distance, eating their fill from the tender grass that covered the fields.

The town was quiet and still.

Every time we turned the corner, we ran across more empty streets stretching before us. The shortage had affected everyone, though some more than others. At least one in ten people in our town had left for family in the northern cities, or were homeless and wandering the countryside after the cost of living in the town became too expensive.

No traders came this season either, but it wasn't too much of a deal for my family. There wasn't anything to trade, anyways - all of it had either been thrown out or sold to surrounding villages for food already. I hadn't carved anything in what felt like years, even though it had only been a few weeks or so.

Fran's thin arms hugged her classroom reader close to her chest. I sighed and adjusted the satchel I had fashioned into a makeshift backpack, my inkwell and pens clinking near the bottom.

With the blizzards and the drought, we had missed so much school that we would be forced to repeat a year. Personally, I didn't really care, but for Fran the news was devastating. She was one of the children that was always eager to please; passing with the highest scores she could manage and studying with a fervor that would have left me in the dust if I didn't know the material already.

We walked into the schoolroom and took our customary seats near the rear of the classroom. A murder of crows flew from the southwest past the window. Glancing out the window, I saw a man in the distance riding up the path into the town.

The smoke I had smelled earlier thickened.

Then I was standing and moving.

"Martin! Sit down!"

Ignoring Mr. Kreef, I walked through the door. The graphite-black stain of smoke smeared across the cloud-stained sky. Yes, the base was indeed coming from the Shiganshina district.

I shifted nervously.

"_Martin!_"

So... This was it. The beginning of the end. A hopeless snarl came to my lips as Mr. Kreef angrily grabbed my shoulder, forced me back inside, and had me stand in the corner.

I didn't resist.

The situation was _hopeless;_ I could have gone home and told my parents to pack, flee, to save us. They would have taken one look at the smoke, reply that it wasn't what I thought it was, and punish me for making a fuss of nothing.

So I waited. So I watched.

* * *

Hours later the man had finally arrived at our town, bearing the news at the top of his lungs that _the gates had fallen._

Fran and I were outside, already walking home.

Those within earshot of the cry paused in shock, trying to understand the _impossibility_. The gates were _impenetrable -_ it was a fact, just like water was wet and the sun rose in the east

The cry was confirmation of my unstated fear. I should have been screaming. I should have been breaking down.

Instead, I grabbed Fran's wrist and hauled her with me to the house.

The invasion had begun.

"Moooooooom! Daaaaaaad!" I shrieked as I drew closer to the house. Some birds scattered from the trees in the front of our house.

No one was outside. I rushed into the house, slamming the front door open. Father was at his workbench mending a hammer, and looked up at me in curiosity.

"Get the horses!" I panted, crouched over as my chest burned from the sprint. Father got up and came towards me worriedly. I shook my head and gestured wildly at the smoke coming from the distance, "Shiganshina's _gone_! We need to leave, _now_!"

That "What's going on?"

"Shiganshina's _burning_!" I repeated, arms and legs trembling from adrenaline, "We need to go to the inner cities! A messenger came through the town; he said the _titans_ _got through_ _both gates!"_

Father stilled for a moment, mouth dropped in shock. But then he _moved_, barking orders so quickly I could barely keep up.

"Grab clothes, food - only what we need. I'll get the horses hooked up. Fran, you're coming with us."

"Y-yes sir!"

"Lisa," He turned towards me, and my gaze snapped to his, "Go get your mother. She's in the orchard."

I bolted.

Mother flew into action as soon as I stuttered out what happened, picking up my slight child's frame with superhuman strength and hauling me towards our house at a speed I wouldn't have reached on my own. She set me down, and we immediately went around gathering up the necessities.

I ran into my room and collected the spare money I had saved, my whittling tools, a couple of changes of clothes, my journal and some writing tools, and my blankets. I rushed out of the door and ran to the barn, dropping my small load into a corner of the cart. Mother followed close behind me, placing a couple days worth of food into the little shock-absorbing nest I had made.

Fran was helping keep the horses calm as father hooked them up.

Mother and father exchanged a few terse, quiet sentences. I looked around desperately, and was shocked to see our livestock roaming through open gates. I was just about to ask what was going on, but dad gathered me up in his strong arms and flung me into the carriage.

"Stay there, and _don't leave_!"

I nodded meekly and settled onto the cart. Father rushed towards the stables, and Fran and I somberly stared at the cloud of smoke and steam rising from the Shiganshina district. The dirt road near the edge of our farm was already bustling with activity; some groups of people clamored up the path as they rode horses and mules toward the inner city. Many more were trying to make the trip on foot, leaving everything behind except for the clothes on their back.

A small child ran up the path, crying for his older brother.

Minutes passed, and mother and father returned with a few of their most valuable items and light tools. We left without further fanfare, dodging around all of the loose animals running through the fields. We traveled in silence for the rest of the day and through the night, only stopping to water and rest our horses for a couple of hours.

The walls of Trost were still another day away. Occasionally, a horseback rider or three overtook us at a gallop, but father kept our team of horses at a steady, energy saving trot. The cart was uncomfortable. We felt every bump, rock, and pit in the road as the wheels rolled on the uneven ground. None of us slept through the first night, but I don't think any of us _could_ with the knell of Shiganshina hanging over our heads. We arrived outside of Trost just before the sun rose. A sea of humanity huddled around the entrance to the closed gate, and we stopped our cart outside of the confused crowd.

"Anton? What do we do now?" Mother whispered to father quietly.

"They were probably overwhelmed, Irma... We should wait a little more. They have to let us in. They have to."

I stayed silent. What if they didn't? What if they were only accepting the boats from the cities? What if we just missed the cutoff, and we were going to be eaten by the titans?

Fran whimpered, and mother drew her into a stiff hug. The crowd became steadily louder, wails of despair and fear echoing off of the tall walls and stirring unrest in the people around the cart.

A creak echoed from the gate, and the crowd stirred in confusion.

Then the chains groaned and lifted the bricks of the barrier into the air. A shout of elation ran through the sea of humanity, and the people flowed inside as fast as physically possible. Some people were trampled in the rush, but their howls of pain were drowned out by the hubbub and cheers. We moved with the rest of the horse-drawn carts, staying out of harm's way as well as we could. There were a few Garrison officers hanging around the edges of the crowd, I noticed belatedly. Some men and women were hanging off of the wall, anchored to their spots with their 3DMG. They flailed their swords, ineffectually attempting to direct the unruly traffic.

A number of officers were actually _on_ the ground, but their efforts were rendered useless in the crush of people. I could barely see through a gap in the crowd as one young man took a punch to the face and went down. A few moments later he flew up the walls with his 3DMG, nursing his broken nose.

* * *

I had lost track of the time it took us to get to the gates, but we were barely passing under the immense arch of the first entrance when it happened. A scream echoed near the forest behind the crowd, and I involuntarily turned in my seat to see what was going on. My eyes skimmed the general area, ignoring the tall evergreen trees circling the clearing. A flicker of movement drew my attention upwards, and my mouth dropped open in shock. Fran screamed in terror.

A titan.

It was an ugly thing, a blue-eyed obese female that looked like it wore a skin toned bodysuit. It was probably a ten-meter class, and it pushed its way through the dense forest slowly. Ambling towards the crowd, I observed in horrified fascination as its long, unkempt blonde hair swayed over its gaping mouth. It took another step, and steam hissed from its mouth, condensing into a white fog in the cool morning air. It slowed as it neared the edges of the panicking crowd, reached toward an unfortunate straggler, lifted him into the air –

Mother blocked our view with her arms and drew us close. Fran buried her head in mother's side, muffling her fearful sobbing.

I twisted out of her grip and watched as the woman titan lifted the flailing human in her grasp. Eying the man curiously, she brought the human towards her face and bit the man's head off. I couldn't hear the wet crunch of bone over the distance, but I could see that the corpse kept _twitching_ in its hand as the titan tilted its head back and swallowed the victim's torso. Blood and entrails spilled from the titan's hand, bathing the appendage in red fluid.

The mob screamed and _surged_ as the people desperately pushed at and _over_ the man, woman, or child in front of them. It was as much an act of desperation as it was an exercise in futility.

The titan finished its meal, tilted its head, swallowed, and walked towards the next group of humans.

Wails of horror, pain, and _fear_ echoed against the walls and redoubled in intensity. Even with father's expert hand we barely cleared the second gate without being overcome by the crowd.

A second brown-haired titan came running from the trees into the middle of the crowd. It didn't stop at the edges, instead diving into the thick of the crowd, heedlessly crunching man and animal alike underfoot. Skidding on the corpses it left in its wake, it stopped, nearly overbalanced, reached down, and caught two people. Opening its gaping mouth, it squeezed its hand and crushed them in its fist before eating the corpses.

A third male, a blond one this time, came through the trees and lazily walked towards the crowd.

Then another with brown hair.

It was the beginning of a flood; as I watched, even _more_ peered around the trees or staggered towards the crowd dumbly.

We slowly pushed our way through, spared from being crushed with the small protection our cart afforded us. Some people tried to climb up the sides of the cart to escape, but mother and I worked together to force them off balance and back onto the ground. Some were carried away above the crowd; others fell, stumbled, and were hidden from my sight.

Not everyone made it through.

Minutes passed, but they felt like hours in the chaos. We were stuck in the middle of the road, people and animals jostling but stuck in the same centimeter by centimeter crawl. The titans continued their rapid advance closer to the gate. More people were being eaten as more titans marched into the clearing. Some people near the edged of the crowd were cutting their losses and running into the forest, hoping against hope that the way to the east or west walls were clear.

The blonde woman titan picked up another woman and dropped her down its throat. The victim was still alive, her limbs flailing sporadically.

Panicked shouting came from Garrison officers hanging on the walls, and I numbly looked up. A couple of Garrison soldiers were clearing the top of Wall Rose, peering down at the chaos below. I looked again through the arch of the gate as the outer gate creaked. I blinked, and shouted in shock, pointing at the walls. The gates were _dropping._ Chains keeping the gates up creaked and gave way, slamming down with a bone rattling slam onto the people still pushing their way through.

I could still hear the crowd's screams of panic as those unlucky enough to be in the drop zone were crushed by the rapid fall of the gate. Everyone else inside of the walls rushed into the main street, adding to the chaos.

The last person made it through the second gate, and the inner gate shut. All sound was cut off from the outside, but the crowd inside was making more than enough noise to make up for the sudden silence. It was pandemonium. Children wailed, women cried, men shouted and sobbed. I could hear many cry for relatives and friends separated by the crush of the crowd.

Some people were silent, nearly catatonic, pushed by the crush into crevasses and cracks between the houses. Their eyes were locked into a thousand-yard-stare and they wandered aimlessly, awake but not _seeing._

Fran shook silently, and mother was trembling. My fists were clenched, the knuckles becoming white as I tried, and failed, to control the vibrations running through my limbs.

I _saw_ them _die_. They were _crushed_ -

I _knew,_ beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the people outside of the walls were deaddead_dead._

As we pushed through, the crowd eventually loosened as it dispersed into the streets of Trost. The survivors on foot rushed around our cart, but to me it looked like they were swimming through molasses. Everything had slowed down to my perception, but so many things were happening I could barely keep track of any of them. I retreated into myself, the world still flowing around me.

My head felt like it was full of cotton. I wanted to lash out, to _cry,_ to sleep, to _hurt. Who cares that we survived? Who cares that we still had each other?_

I couldn't do anything. _I couldn't do anything._

I _knew_ this would happen. I _knew_.

All of those _people_… The _families_. The_ children_.

A shudder tore through my frame. My breath hitched, and I whimpered.

Then my stomach twisted and I was suddenly bent almost double over the side of the cart and heaving the meager contents of my stomach onto the filthy cobblestones.

Mother reached for me and roughly, desperately, pulled me into a hug.

I sobbed.

With bile in my mouth I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.


End file.
